


lay your troubles down

by Avelera



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Acorn Scene (Hobbit Movies), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bottom Thorin, Dragon Sickness, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Gold Sickness, Happy Ending, Healing Sex, Kissing, M/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2782175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An extended version of "the acorn scene." Bilbo sees his chance to snap Thorin out of his madness, and takes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BringerOfAshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BringerOfAshes/gifts).



> Special thanks to BringerOfAshes for recommending "On My Own" by Ashes Remain, because somehow that song kicked my brain in gear and actually got me past my post-BotFA grief long enough to get this fic out. The title "lay your troubles down" comes from the lyrics of that song.
> 
> This fic was written as something of a reversal on the usual "Dark Fuck Prince Thorin under dragon sickness is sexually aggressive with Bilbo", because after the acorn scene I couldn't help but think that Bilbo is really the one with the power in the relationship, and the motivation to push it further to see if it helps Thorin snap out of his illness.

Bilbo’s breath caught. The tiny acorn was a palpable weight in his hand, something so small now so significant, able give Thorin back to him if only for a little while. Because this _was_ Thorin in front of him. The severity of his expression, made harsh and shadowed by his illness, softened as he looked from Bilbo’s hand, and then to his face. There was something in his eyes as Thorin did so, as if he shined with with a light from within. The stiffness that had ached in Bilbo’s shoulders as he held himself so carefully, always on edge, wondering to what depths the illness would take Thorin next, bled from him with each breath.

Silence hung suspended between them, as if elevated by some magic he could not name. Breathe in, breathe out, because there he was. His Thorin had been there the whole time, trapped behind that mask of suspicion, so twisted up that it was like looking at a different person.

 _Don’t leave_ , Bilbo thought, a desperate longing welling in him to just hold Thorin here, to take this tiny glimpse of the person he’d known and drag him back out again. If they could just stay here a little longer then he knew he could, and Bilbo’s fingers twitched at his side. This distance between them had always seemed so wide and insurmountable, filled with all that separated them in their lives. He was no dwarf lord, not a warrior or leader to inspire the hearts of his followers. He had never known loss as Thorin had, or the ever-winding road, or great battles that left such terrible scars scrawled across Thorin’s face and body as if scratched with reckless tools. He was only a hobbit, soft and fussy, caring for the comforts of his home. One only able to dream of the world that Thorin knew.

The world Thorin was trying to escape. Because Thorin wanted a home, and the very act of taking it back had driven him mad. Would Bilbo not have fought just as hard, had Bag End been stolen from him? Would he not have turned inward, filled with rage and pain if all that was his was taken from him, or if so important an heirloom of his family were kept from him? The weight of the Arkenstone was like a millstone in his pocket, but it must wait until he could be sure it would not send Thorin into a deeper spiral.

Yet Bilbo _understood_ , and it chilled him to wonder how anyone would bear losing what Thorin had lost, if any could truly say they would bear it without going a little mad? If he returned home to find Bag End ransacked, could Bilbo Baggins say he would stay sane?

But this illness in Thorin tore at his heart, turned it to dust in his breast and his limbs to lead. It was unbearable, watching it eat at Thorin, stealing all he was and leaving behind some horrible shell. To see that great, honorable heart made petty and small, that strength turned to violence, that driven will to mindless obsession over a single stone.

Yet somehow, impossibly, this little acorn had pulled Thorin back from whatever abyss he trod in his mind. Bilbo thought, ashamed, how close he’d been to taking out the Arkenstone, or his ring, and how only when he heard footsteps had his hand moved quickly to the acorn, all but forgotten at the bottom of his jacket pocket. To see how it transformed Thorin would have made the guilt all the deeper save that he could have wept to have that glimpse.

Thorin was not lost, that courage was still there, the loving care with which he tended to his followers and family was too and Bilbo’s own heart beat faster at the sight of it. Had Thorin always looked like this when he was healthy: handsome and at peace? If so, how had Bilbo ever been able to look away?

Bilbo’s hand rose of its own accord, and Thorin’s blue eyes flickered to the side to track their movement, his throat working. He glanced back to Bilbo, suddenly  as fragile and on the edge of flight as a startled deer. Bilbo stroked the tips of his fingers through Thorin’s short beard, his hand coming to rest on Thorin’s cheek. Bilbo thought then that Thorin would pull away. Had he gone too far? Was he was reading too much into their simple camaraderie and trust?

For it could not be anything more than that. Whatever existed between them was as intangible as faded perfume, perhaps not really there at all. He could not be rising to his tiptoes as if pulled inevitably forward by some tug he could not see, but that came from somewhere near his heart. Thorin’s eyes could not be clearing, his lips parting as Bilbo leaned closer.

 _Stay here. Stay with me. Please_ , he thought as he felt Thorin’s breath flutter over his lips, in his own last second of hesitation. Bilbo’s gaze flickered up to Thorin’s face, just inches away. Thorin was pale from his illness, transfixed, and Bilbo felt a tremor run through him. Had there been even the faintest trace of uncertainty, or surprise Bilbo would have drawn back then and there, but all he saw was yearning.

“ _Bilbo_ ,” Thorin breathed, and Bilbo had never heard his name spoken with such reverence, never thought it to be possible. It tipped him over the edge of some madness he never thought existed within himself. Surely this was a mistake, and his heart was not turning to fire within him, and Thorin was not trembling beneath his hand, and he was not rising the rest of the way to close the distance between them?

Then all such thoughts were banished, because Thorin’s lips were dry against his, rough from worry and thirst. They softened beneath his when his tongue flickered over them, until they parted with a muted gasp. Thorin was leaning into him, kissing back with a whimper from deep within his chest, and his gloved hand was pressed to Bilbo’s cheek now with the scent of leather and the chill of metal.

Bilbo dropped the acorn back into his pocket, and held Thorin’s hand there with his now-free one, running the other across Thorin’s skin, his thumb stroking Thorin’s cheekbone, then moving up to comb through the streaks of silver at Thorin’s temple, brushing through the softness of his hair. Then Bilbo gave up entirely, surrendering to the need to be closer, to extend this moment as long as possible and keep Thorin against him. To wrest him back from the darkness by force if need be. Bilbo entwined his arms around Thorin’s neck, going to the very edge of his range, to the tips of his toes as he clung there.

Thorin took his hands away, and for a panicked second Bilbo thought he was pulling back, and that Bilbo had gone too far. Until he heard the clang of metal as Thorin tore the gauntlets off, tossing them to ground. He reached down to cup Bilbo’s face with warm roughness of his bare hands, calluses scraping Bilbo’s cheek and sending a delicious shiver through him. Bilbo sighed against Thorin’s lips, relief a heady drug that brought a helpless smile to his lips as he kissed harder, holding Thorin flush against him, heat zinging through his veins at the closeness. At the sound of Bilbo’s gasp, something seemed to pass through Thorin, a breath that stole all tension with it even as he pulled Bilbo closer.

Thorin broke the kiss, and dazed Bilbo thought that was probably for the best before they both ran out of air, but Thorin’s forehead was pressed against his and Bilbo’s heart ached as he felt the intense heat radiating from it. Thorin's brow was dry and fevered, and his eyes gleamed with sickness, and with something sharper and far more desperate. Only then did Bilbo realize he was speaking, frantic words muttered against Bilbo’s lips. “Never dared expect, never hoped… How can you forgive me, when I have led you into this peril, into this pit of vipers? Why have you given me this gift, when I never dared think you could…?”

Bilbo blinked, trying to piece together the whispered stream of words, and as the shape of Thorin’s meaning resolved itself he felt his heart lurch. “Forgive you? No, I’m not… there was nothing to forgive, Thorin.” He pressed another kiss to Thorin’s jawline, to his cheek, whispering fervently, trying to drag Thorin back by force of his words alone. “I have come this far because I trust you, because you are the single most…” his voice broke, “extraordinary person I have ever met. I would do it again, a thousand times over. I—”

“Thorin!” A shock ran through Bilbo. Someone was coming up the hall, their voice still a distant rumble. Dwalin. But Thorin was relaxed against him, his breath loud in Bilbo’s ears and perhaps… perhaps he had not yet heard.

Bilbo grabbed Thorin by the collar, tugging him back against the stone wall behind them capturing his lips again with a kiss that was hot and tinged with desperation. So close, Thorin was here and all it would take was one word, one misplaced gesture, and Bilbo would lose him again. He could feel it, so tentative that a breath could knock it away.

Thorin groaned into his mouth and Bilbo bit back a squeak as stronger arms lifted him from the ground. Bilbo dangled, his feet wavering useless in the air, then his back was against the wall and his legs were pinned at Thorin’s waist. Indecent, entirely unrespectable, he tried very hard not to imagine what it would do to his reputation, but then he was furiously kissing a dwarf lord on the battlements of an abandoned kingdom, and his heart was hammering even as fear was crawling up his spine. _Please_ let Dwalin search elsewhere, let him keep his voice down… Bilbo kissed Thorin again and wrapped his bare legs around Thorin’s waist, straightening so they were at the same level. Thorin held him up there without any trace of effort, as if Bilbo weighed nothing at all.  

Bilbo cracked an eye open just as Dwalin came around the corner, his hand cupped to his mouth once more to shout to Thorin. Bilbo made another sound, moaning as loud as he dared as he twined his arms around Thorin’s shoulders, and with his free hand frantically waved Dwalin away.

Dwalin stopped, his gaze flickering between Thorin and the flushed and very occupied hobbit that was at the moment glaring at him. He hesitated, and Bilbo’s stomach dropped. He dared break away from Thorin, just for a moment, to furiously mouth _,_ “ _Shoo!_ ”

Thorin looked up, dazed, lips parted, cheeks flushed, but just then Bilbo captured his mouth again, scrubbing his hand against the back of Thorin’s neck, working his fingers in to the tense muscles there. Bilbo cracked his eyes open again, just long enough to see Dwalin backing away, an expression of amusement and perhaps… relief, softening his expression before he turned away and vanished back down the hall.

Bilbo very much hoped that hadn’t been important.

“What should I do, Bilbo?” Thorin said, breaking away again, and for a heart-stopping moment, Bilbo thought he meant Dwalin’s retreating figure. But Thorin was looking at him, his expression twisted in anguish, that shadow returned to his eyes. “I am surrounded by thieves and opportunists, my own family turned against me. Only you have stayed by my side, only you have come all this way with no hope of riches…. Why? Why are you still here, when all others seek only their own advantage?”

“Thorin…” Bilbo began, trailing off. He huffed a breath, searching for words, and leaned in, pressing his forehead to Thorin’s as he had so often seen the dwarves do. It seemed to carry some significance, and Thorin pressed back gently, nuzzling against Bilbo as if seeking comfort as he went on. “You are not alone. We’re all here for you.” He felt Thorin’s brow furrow, hinting at new anger, before he rushed on, “ _I_ am here for you. We will find a way out of all this.”

“You still have not answered my question,” Thorin said after a long moment. His voice was worn, and Bilbo could not help but wonder if that meant he would lose Thorin again soon to the illness, or if that exhaustion meant Thorin was returning to himself even a little bit, a sign of those manic episodes receding. “Always you come back, and I never truly understand why.”

Bilbo gave a faint, nervous laugh. “You’re really going to ask me to explain it?”

Thorin drew back. It was a minute gesture, but in it there was the suggestion of a flinch. “If it is not your wish to do so…”

“No! No, no… I only thought I was quite clear there a moment ago,” Bilbo said, and felt a blush crawling up his throat. One thing to kiss Thorin as if he were drowning, another to actually spell it out.

“It is well known to us that other races may not be as… constant, in their affections. It need not have meant anything at all,” Thorin said, and Bilbo nearly gave in to the incredulous laughter welling up inside him when he stopped himself and looked at Thorin. Really _looked_ at him, forgetting for a moment his own fussiness, his concerns for the good opinion of hobbits that were half way across the world anyway.

Thorin’s expression gave nothing away, save in the intensity of his gaze. Bilbo remembered how Thorin would at times hide behind a neutral expression, the leader of their company so careful to conceal any fault line of weakness or fear. There was fear there now, his lips drawn to a line that seemed to hold back all he dare not ask. Suddenly it was all very clear to Bilbo what must be done. It made him ache right down to his core, for surely nothing could be worse than to see the great Thorin Oakenshield afraid, and if there was ought he could do about it then he had already learned long ago that he would.

So really there was no avoiding it at all. He could not help himself from pressing his lips to Thorin’s again, feather-light and gentle where just a moment before they had been fierce. No more than he could stop the ache it kindled in his heart that only increased as Thorin breathed against him, and those dark brows of his drew together as if he were in pain. From there it was not very difficult at all to pull away, just a fraction, and whisper against Thorin’s lips, “ Because I love you.”

Bilbo felt that little flame in his heart flare until it felt his whole body would catch alight. “I'm here because I love you,” he said, realizing it even as he spoke. He pressed on from Thorin’s lips, peppering kisses to his throat and jawline, across his cheek and even one to the tip of his nose.

 _Com_ _e back to me_ , he prayed into each kiss, even as he heard Thorin’s breathing speed up and he made a soft sound, leaning in to Bilbo’s touch, holding him as if he would never let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [There is art for this chapter by the lovely Rutobuka!](https://avelera.tumblr.com/post/170276248285/rutobuka2-drawn-during-yesterdays-stream)


	2. Chapter 2

Once started, Bilbo found he could not stop the outpouring of ‘ _I love you’_ s _._ It was as if the words had always been there, trapped behind years of hobbit propriety that would rather allow the earth to swallow him whole, rather than be caught whispering fevered nonsense against the lips of anyone, much less a dwarf lord.

Well, propriety could go take a running leap off the mountain for all he cared, because with each murmured repetition, Bilbo could feel his heart growing brighter until it felt as if it burned. No sooner had he spoken them the first time then he knew how long he’d waited to do so, without knowing he waited.

It seemed he was not alone in this. He could feel each muffled word shiver through Thorin’s body, breaking apart the brittle shadows of his illness, leaving hairline cracks in his demeanor through which Bilbo could feel _heat_. As if hearing that he was loved broke Thorin free of those shadows bit-by-bit, revealing that fire within him that had been trapped by the twisting effects of the sickness.

“ _My love, my only, my most trusted. Only you have never wavered, never stole_ ,” Thorin whispered back fervently. Bilbo knew he was no judge at present, but there was something slurred about Thorin’s words, lacking the once deep, crisp clarity of his voice. The twinge of confusion turned to a wash of cold as Thorin continued. “Who took the lowly Oakenshield and made him a king. Yes, with your luck, and your loyalty, you saw us here, you saw me crowned. I will adorn you in jewels, no, in the greatest of jewels. You shall have the heart of the mountain, the King’s Jewel, and bear it at my side…”

“I don’t want it!” Bilbo gasped, pulling away. The chill in his blood turned to ice, and he knew he had done something terribly wrong, shattering the fragile spell of clarity that lay upon Thorin “The Arkenstone. Thorin, I don't want it.” Fear widened his eyes and it seemed every second stretched beyond endurance, as he waited for Thorin's reaction to his hasty words.

Thorin’s expression did change, after a moment. Only it softened into the gentlest of smiles, looking upon Bilbo as if he were a wonder. “That, my burglar, is _why_ I would trust you with its possession. Do you not understand? It is the heart of the mountain, the summit of our wealth, and the king _is_ the mountain. Bilbo,” he said, and took Bilbo’s slack and unresisting hand in his, placing it against his chest. “It is _my_ heart, and you are the only one I trust to keep it, you who has never been false.”

The weight of the Arkenstone that was even now in his pocket felt like live coal pressing against his side. Not an hour before, Bilbo had considered throwing the stone down the deepest mineshaft he could find, a place so dark it would never come to light, so long as it meant keeping Thorin safe. Bilbo swallowed, fighting for the ability to speak. “I am honored, Thorin, truly,” he said, and a bit more boldly as Thorin’s fond smile remained. “To have your heart, it is more than any Baggins deserves.”

“I do not want any Baggins,” Thorin said, inclining his head, “just the one.”

Bilbo managed a small grin, but pushed on earnestly. “It’s just… I don’t _need_ a gem, no matter how valuable, so long as I have you. Even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t need it right now. Can it not wait? Having the Company out looking for it… can’t be a good use of their time. It can’t be a good use of _your_ time. You are, all of you, exhausted from the quest, and from the fighting, not to mention all this searching. The Arkenstone will be found sooner or later.”

“Sooner, if not for the laziness of our so-called companions,” Thorin growled, and it was such a savage sound that Bilbo started. “You do not understand the importance of this jewel, Bilbo. Already it has been too long buried… And I have been too long distracted…” The change across Thorin’s feature was sudden, and terrifying, the very mention of the stone  enough to banish all the good that had just existed between. Shadows fell across his face, the muscles twisting beneath the skin so he seemed a different person entirely. Thorin looked up, and to the door, allowing Bilbo to slip from his arms, his feet thudding as they fell dismally to the ground.

“Wait!” Bilbo exclaimed, closing a hand around Thorin’s arm. Thorin shot him a glare, and Bilbo retreated, offering a sheepish laugh. He gave a little shrug, and withdrew his hand. “Come now, Thorin, it's late, and you’re exhausted. It will at least keep until morning.”

“Are you suggesting that I allow the jewel to languish while I laze about?” Thorin said, eyes narrowing. “Or perhaps that I should allow another to find it, and _take_ it from us?”

“ _Thorin_ ,” Bilbo said desperately, shaking his head, “you’re being ridiculous! If you’ve trusted me this far, can you not accept my advice on this? The stone is within the mountain, there’s nothing to fear there. But I can count, and I know you’ve been awake for _days_. You probably wouldn’t see the stone if it was right in front of you!” It gave him a curious little thrill to skirt so close to the truth, and added the high edge of hysteria to his voice and thoughts, “I’m _worried_ about you, Thorin. You need _rest_. So please, _please,_ I am begging you, let it go for _one night_ and come to bed with me, _please_.”

Bilbo froze, his eyes popping open as his own words caught up to him, stomach dropping to somewhere around his furry feet as he stared in abject horror at Thorin. “To sleep. Come to bed with me… to sleep. Because you need to rest, and I—” He stopped, because there was something interrupting him.

It was a soft _whuffing_ sound, choked and breathy. Thorin had ducked his head, his hair falling forward to conceal his features. His shoulders were shaking and he had pressed a hand to his mouth.

Laughing. Thorin Oakenshield was _laughing_ at him. Why, the utter cheek!

“Oh, come now, you know what I meant!” Bilbo protested.

“Do I?” Thorin said, looking up, mirth creasing his face. He raised an eyebrow, and it was such a casual gesture, so normal and playful, that Bilbo’s outrage vanished in a puff. He had to steady himself as hope welled sharping and piercing within him. This sickness of Thorin’s would be the death of him, with these easily changing moods, but there was no doubt that his Thorin was _there_. 

“You cannot possibly expect me to believe you would welcome any… any other… interpretation,” Bilbo said, stumbling over the words, because fifty years of trained hobbit politeness can only be undone so quickly. He stopped himself and the urge to babble from nerves, because something was flickering in the depths of Thorin’s blue eyes and he looked down at his hands, frowning at their lack of gauntlets, his fingers working in and out as if wondering at a puzzle that eluded him. When he looked back to Bilbo they seemed clearer than ever, and that smile returned, this time bemused.

“Bilbo, you have a noble heart,” Thorin said. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the shell of Bilbo’s ear, close enough so that each rumbling word formed a gentle kiss that brushed Bilbo’s skin. “And a fair form. Courage and wisdom I was wrong ever to doubt. But I should take back my words on the keenness of your eyes, if you do not see that I would welcome such an interpretation." He pull away a little, meeting Bilbo's gaze. "That is, if you would have me.”

Bilbo’s mouth went dry. This was a madness that he had never foreseen, one utterly separate from that which afflicted Thorin. Of that dragon sickness there was no sign at present, for Thorin’s tone was light and teasing, and the darkness in his eyes was from an emotion that not long ago Bilbo would have been far too proper to name. Surely this was too fast, just as when he’d rushed out his door without a pocket-handkerchief. Surely he should put a stop to this now…

Thorin hesitated, pulling back at Bilbo’s continued silence. Uncertainty replaced that amusement, that desire, echoing on his features against a hidden hurt that could only be the confirmation of Thorin’s fears. Bilbo felt he stood on a knife’s edge. If he should walk away, he must do it now, and know that Thorin would not fault him for it. Or he could stay, but no, no that wasn’t proper, entirely unrespectable, the end of his reputation, he couldn’t just…

Couldn’t _what_? Bilbo started, and could have smacked himself at the train of his own thoughts. Was he really worrying about the opinions of stodgy hobbits on the other side of the world?

Did he really care about propriety and reputation when Thorin was _right_ here, wanting him and making no secret of it? Goodness knew he could not say what in Bilbo Baggins inspired such heat from Thorin Oakenshield, but no more than he could explain why a tiny acorn was enough to break Thorin free of the madness that threatened to consume him.

Was he utterly daft? They had reclaimed the mountain, Bilbo had said so himself! Thorin was home, their quest was achieved. Any excuse to wait, any concept that they must put off pleasure and love and life had moved from practical to absurd. 

Forget shadows, and magic, and stones! Forget the sense of foreboding that haunted these halls. That dread was no more than a memory of old hatred and greed, and they could not let it poison them further. The dragon was dead, the Company safe inside a fortress of stone. Greater threats yet waited beyond, and no doubt there would be a reckoning, but to sit paralyzed in anticipation only made it worse. What was Thorin’s illness but giving in to that dread, his dire outlook that all would betray him a product of it?

No, it was time to move on from such fretting and nonsense. Bilbo had had enough of allowing the darkness to win because they were afraid. He'd had enough of great fears over good and evil, and little fears of embarrassment.

With that, Bilbo reached up before Thorin could retreat another inch, seizing his face in both hand and feeling the scratch of beard as he pulled the dwarf forward with a ferocity that startled both of them. It was a far less decorous kiss than the others, more of a mashing of lips as Bilbo struggled to keep from laughing at his own ridiculousness. He made it a quick one, brief and forceful, and when he pulled away he was grinning.

“A bit drafty in here, don’t you think?” Bilbo said conversationally. “I must say, I’m looking forward to the day when the rest of your people arrive, so we can get those forges going. I imagine they heat the entire mountain. _But_ , until then, I have somewhere else in mind.”

“The forges…” Thorin’s brow crinkled, as if by the return of an old memory. “Yes, those will go far towards bringing some warmth to these halls.” He frowned, an absent expression that lacked the stormy quality of his earlier displeasure. “I had not noticed the cold, but now that you speak of it, I do not know how that is.”

Bilbo bit his tongue, not wanting to break the spell by pointing out how Thorin’s illness had changed him. “Aren’t you curious?”

“What exactly are you planning?” Thorin said, raising an eyebrow. 

“Nothing so exalted as I’m sure you’re imagining,” Bilbo replied quickly. “Just a little space I cleared for myself. I think it was once a linen closet. It’s rather musty, but dry and relatively untouched and I’ve made it into a bit of a room for myself.” A hidden one, so that he would not have to fear someone stumbling upon him with the Arkenstone during those few hours he slept every night.

“Why would you need quarters separate from the Company?” Thorin said, eyes narrowing with the threat of suspicion, but Bilbo was ready.

Bilbo shrugged. “Have you heard Bombur’s snoring? I should think after all these months I’ve earned a bit of a respite. It’s not as if there aren’t enough rooms.”

Thorin snorted. “Well do I know it, I had my doubts about bringing him for that very reason.”

“Because he _snored_?” Bilbo exclaimed. “Not… all the other reasons? I thought you dwarves were tolerant of such things.”

“If only that were true,” Thorin said with a rueful expression. “I have barely slept this entire journey, because I kept waking to what I thought was someone sawing down the forest atop our heads. But you must not tell the others, it is not proper for a dwarf to be so light a sleeper.”

“Cross my heart,” Bilbo said with a grin. It did make sense though, when he recalled Thorin sleeping upright and in armor, so far away from the camp as he could manage, in particular as far away from Bombur as could one while still standing guard.

Thorin smiled, another of those light, soft ones that Bilbo’s breath and made him feel as if he were the most precious being on earth. He could not help but blush at the sight of it. “Now, where is this mysterious bower? The sooner we find rest, the sooner we may return to searching.”

Bilbo would rather they did not return to searching at all, but he had gained at least this admission from Thorin and was not about to spoil it. A few hours rest and some time away from the gold was a greater victory than he had ever dared hope. “This way, not far.”

Yet he had not gone two steps before he felt strong arms enclose his shoulders, and warm lips pressed against his cheek. “Just to sleep. Is that not so, Master Burglar?”

Butterflies fluttered in Bilbo’s stomach, but they were the warm sort, and there was a pounding in his blood that he had not felt for many years, had never thought to feel again at all as he nuzzled back. “Of course.” 


	3. Chapter 3

They wandered the corridors of Erebor, Thorin trailing behind Bilbo, and he not daring to release the king’s hand. He did not cling, exactly, but he was all too aware of the tenuous spell that seemed to have settled between them, with Thorin following him as biddable as Bilbo had ever seen him.

Erebor was still a labyrinth to him, with a dizzying number of levels, doorways, and halls. Yet Bilbo had some familiarity with this particular stretch that ran not far from the treasury but was at least made invisible to it by the wall. In certain places they had to step around debris and crumbled mortar, passing claw marks dug deep into the stone as Smaug had squeezed and scrambled his way through the halls. Bilbo quickened their pace, keeping his gaze studiously forward, not giving Thorin time to linger over the damage, or even glance at it before he was dragged further on

The door he stopped at was nearly obscured by fallen stones so that it was hidden from any casual view. A stairway further down the hall would take them straight back to the treasury in a matter of minutes, and it was how Bilbo had come to find this spot in the first place. Its hidden nature had comforted Bilbo, some deep part of him feeling an odd relief at being able to crawl into a place of respite away from the world, the door not even visible unless one ducked behind the leaning masonry. He did so now, only to feel a hand on his shoulder as Thorin turned him around.

“Why did you not simply say we were going to the royal quarters?” Thorin said. Dread froze Bilbo’s breath in his throat, and he raised his eyes slowly to meet Thorin’s. He was caught, the spell was broken, Thorin would see right through him…

A fingertip on his chin brought his gaze unwillingly up and Thorin was looking at him, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “There’s no need to be ashamed. The palace of Erebor is vast. Had you only told me, I might have taken us the quicker way through the treasure room. But it is no matter, we may return that way.”

Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief that he made no effort to mask. “My mistake, I suppose. Though I can’t say I mind seeing more of the city by going the long way ‘round.”

Thorin nodded in understanding. “It is indeed a wonder. But come, if I recall correctly what you’ve found us is indeed nothing more than a closet, such a simple door could mean nothing else. There are better rooms just this way, my own among them. If not for our task I might have sought them sooner, but this is as good a time as any.”

Thorin turned away, black hair obscuring his profile as he looked down the corridor, when Bilbo caught his wrist. “Thorin, no. You don’t want to go down that way.” 

Thorin looked back at this, frowning as he had when Bilbo first denied having the Arkenstone. As if attempting to divine Bilbo's thoughts by suspicion alone, to see if something was being kept from him. But for once, Bilbo did not feel the twist of guilt, only of grief as he shook his head.

“And why is that?” Thorin said, brow furrowing.

Bilbo hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he sought the words. He licked lips gone suddenly dry, and began slowly, testing each word as he spoke. “Thorin, I explored the whole hall before I chose this room, and I had no idea those were royal quarters.” Thorin’s expression twisted in confusion and Bilbo sighed, continuing, “If, as you say, those rooms belonged to the royal family, I imagine they were very nicely decorated, hmm? Perhaps…lined with gold and silver?”

Thorin nodded cautiously, and then a dreadful understanding dawning in his eyes and Bilbo hung his head, unable to bear the sight as he continued. “Thorin, they are absolutely gutted. It’s all rubble, not a scrap left. Smaug must have stripped it and stolen it back to the treasury when he invaded. It’s a wonder they can be recognized as rooms at all.”

Thorin tensed beneath his hand. “I should go,” he said, pulling at Bilbo’s hand as he looked down the corridor, but Bilbo held on.

“Please don't,” Bilbo said, risking a bit of force as he pulled Thorin back to face him. His heart dropped. There was no madness in Thorin’s eyes, only the shadow of terrible grief, realization making his features pale as his throat worked. He did not fight, but seemed frozen beneath Bilbo’s hand.

“It is my responsibility,” Thorin said. His voice was resolute, but his eyes held that terrible pain. “I must take into account the damage that has been done.”

“Let it wait,” Bilbo said, grabbing Thorin’s hand with both of his, idly stroking the back of it as he spoke. “There’s nothing to be gained now by burdening yourself with this. Let it wait until your kin arrive, when we can build it all afresh. There's reason for you to see this now.”

“Except then I would know,” Thorin said, his voice rough and scraping raw as he looked back, but there was no force behind it. His expression was open and strangely pleading, as if begging to be talked out of his resolve. To be given permission, just this once, to not be forced by duty and honor to stare directly into the depths of his people’s loss.

“Later,” Bilbo repeated. He went on his tiptoes, pressing a kiss to Thorin’s temple, where the streaks of silver mingled with black. “It will keep. Think of this as a camping trip. Well, the kind you have on walking holidays, not what we have all been up to.” He settled back on his feet, and met Thorin’s gaze. Waited.

After a long moment, Thorin sighed, looking away from the corridor. A wry, self-deprecating smile quirked the corner of his lips, expression no longer pinched. “Camping in my own city? I haven’t done so since I was a child.”

“With all these rooms, you must have driven your parents to distraction,” Bilbo said. He edged towards the door, relieved as Thorin followed him.

“No doubt,” he laughed. “Frerin, Dis and I would vanish for days at a time. Often as not they set the guard after us.” Bilbo opened the door as Thorin spoke, and the dwarf peered inside, and as he did his eyebrows rose. “Though rarely did we hole up in so tight a space. You were not exaggerating to call it a linen closet.”

Bilbo huffed. “Well, I was hardly expecting company, and it’s a perfectly reasonable size for a hobbit.”

Beyond the door was the makeshift bedroom Bilbo had created for himself. More of a nest, really. Shelves lined the walls, just high enough that he needed to stand on his toes to pull down their contents. He had not exaggerated, or indeed joked when calling it a linen closet, for that had clearly been its function. Sheets had once lined the shelves, as well as other odds and ends no doubt intended for stocking the bedrooms that lay further down the hall. He’d pulled down what he could reach in linen sheets and wool blankets, airing them out best he could before laying them down on the floor with the cushions in some rough approximation of a bed that covered the floor of the enclosed space. Though in truth, he had not intended to bring company here (the tiny corner of his mind that was still a gentlehobbit of Bag End shuddered at the thought), but more than that—

“Bilbo, I’m not entirely certain I will fit in here,” Thorin said dryly, surveying the room. They stood in the doorway, the light behind them casting their shadows over a space that could not have been more than five feet across.

 _Damn and blast_ , Bilbo thought glumly as he followed Thorin’s gaze. For him it had been quite roomy, dark and quiet in a way that might have been enjoyable had he not been sick with fear during the few hours of sleep he’d managed to snatch. He’d not considered Thorin’s height when dragging him along here, and now so close to the treasury he hadn’t the faintest idea how he could continue to hold Thorin’s attention, or find another spot.

A hand settled on his shoulder, a heavy, companionable pat, and when Bilbo looked up Thorin’s expression was amused, “Come now, we’ve done more with less along our journey. I should applaud your resourcefulness in finding a place so undamaged.”

Bilbo blinked, stifling the flood of questions before they could cross his lips. What of the gold? What of the sickness? More importantly: who was this person, and what had he done with Thorin Oakenshield? Tolerant was one thing, but fond of him as Bilbo was he didn’t think he’d ever seen Thorin so at ease and…playful, much less complimenting him, unless it was for his keen eyes in finding a thousand-foot tall statue. The sight of it now was almost as unsettling as the dragon sickness itself.

All thoughts which scattered the minute Thorin moved to step into the room.

“I _beg_ your pardon!” Bilbo squawked. Thorin started, freezing with one foot hovering over the blankets as if they were a trap. Bilbo pointed a shaking finger at his boots. “Take _those_ off this instant!”

Thorin looked down at his feet, and then up at Bilbo. “You cannot be serious.”

“Would you like to find out?” Bilbo said with a pleasant grin that circumstances and stress put just this side of manic. Whatever it was that Thorin saw in it he stepped back, very slowly. Then crouched to untie his boots, all without breaking eye-contact with Bilbo, perhaps afraid to do so. Hobbits were, as a rule, not very intimidating creatures, but that was a view generally held by those who had not threatened to track mud into their homes. Or linen closets, such as they were in Bilbo’s case at present.

Thorin stepped out of his heavy boots of fur and leather, the ends tipped in iron, and placed them neatly beside the door so he stood only in thick woolen socks. As he straightened he inclined his head towards Bilbo, “Will that do, Master Baggins?”

“Indeed it will, Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo said loftily, gesturing for Thorin to enter with his leave. Only belatedly wondered if he should have called Thorin king. But whatever shadow of the illness demanded reverence and lovely titles seemed to have released Thorin for the moment. Thorin placed a hand on the lintel but did not immediately duck inside.

“It will be dark as pitch in there once we close the door,” Thorin observed before crossing the threshold. He did not crouch immediately, but began rooting amongst the shelves, further back than Bilbo had been able to see when he pulled the blankets down. Thorin made a satisfied sound, pulling something down.

“Oil lamps?” Bilbo frowned. “I thought…” He stopped himself. He had thought they would simply leave the door ajar for light, but then he thought of hot breath whispered against his ear, and felt a blush crawl up his throat.

“It will only be a moment,” Thorin said without looking back. He pulled down an oil lamp and a tin canister, making quick work of them, topping off the lamp before placing both back on the shelf so he could root around in a small pouch that hung from his belt. Then he pulled out, of all things, a set of matches. Thorin glanced over his shoulder at Bilbo, as if sensing his incredulous stare. “Fire comes easily to our hand, but even we may not start it from nothing.”

“I was more surprised that you carry them at all,” Bilbo confessed. That Thorin should carry something so bloody _normal_ about his person while stalking the halls of the treasury like the very dragon they had awoken.

“Of course, I am of Durin’s Folk,” Thorin shrugged, as if it were the most obvious statement of the world, then turned back to his task. Indeed, after a moment the lamp was burning, casting comfortable golden light and flickering shadows over the walls of the little bower. Thorin left it on the shelf and settled down with his back against the far wall.

Bilbo hesitated by the door, in one of those rare instances where he stood taller than Thorin. The king reclined against the wall with one leg casually outstretched before him, the other crooked to the side, and that sight alone was at odds with the stiff and looming manner with which Thorin had carried himself these past days. The flickering light of the oil lamp further softened his features, and if not for the heavy cloak, chainmail and leather jerkin beneath Thorin might have even looked relaxed. Which reminded Bilbo.

“I hope you’re not planning to sleep like that,” Bilbo said.

“Sitting upright?” Thorin said with a frown, and glanced down at himself and back. 

“I meant, in armor?” Bilbo said delicately, though both were true. The few times he’d been awake while Thorin slept on the journey he’d seen the dwarf at the edge of camp, leaning up against a tree or stone as if always on guard duty even when others were assigned the task. “I cannot imagine that’s comfortable, and it’s not as if there is anyone to defend against here.”

Thorin’s expression closed, became at once hard and suspicious. Bilbo swallowed, his error striking him even as the words left his lips. Then Thorin shook his head ruefully, his expression clearing  as he held out his hand to look at his vambraces. “You really are set in leaving me only in my skin, aren’t you?”

“Do you usually sleep otherwise when given the choice?” Bilbo said, raising an eyebrow. Honestly, these ups and downs of fear and relief were going to be the end of him. “I know you dwarves are fond of your works, but this seems excessive.”

Thorin chuckled. “No, there is wisdom in what you say. It is merely a habit of the road, and since then…” He paused, frowning at himself. “Since then it felt… important, to continue doing so.”

“As you said, old habits,” Bilbo supplied quickly. Then, to lead by example, he shucked his own coat, folding it neatly and placing it in the corner of the “bed”, which just happened to encompass all of the available floor space. On a second thought he lifted the corner of the sheet and placed it underneath. Out of the way, and with luck out of range of casual discovery. He was not sure if he felt lighter for shedding the weight of the stone, or heavier to know it was out of his immediate grasp. “It does not mean we must continue those habits once we finally have a proper bedroom.”

“Linen closet,” Thorin corrected. Bilbo grinned, relief sweeping him to see Thorin laughing again, without that terrifying edge of mania. It still felt as if Bilbo were treading thin ice, but with every minute he felt himself relaxing as the banter continued as if there was nothing out of the ordinary, except for the very fact that bantering with _Thorin Oakenshield_ felt the most bizarre of the growing list of bizarre things that made up Bilbo’s year.                                                                                 


	4. Chapter 4

Bilbo stood in the doorway, still bemused by the thought of bantering with Thorin Oakenshield, when Thorin looked up at him, and his expression changed, grew unreadable.

“ _Do_ I know it is safe here?” Thorin said, hands hesitating at the clasps of the armored leather coat, its fabric sewn with chainmail rings, that Bilbo had just urged Thorin to remove so he could sleep. There was something new in Thorin’s face, and unfamiliar. A darkness that was not wholly of the illness, at least not as Bilbo had known it. It was a shrinking, craven look, so at odds with the Thorin he knew that Bilbo made a compulsive move forward, fingers twitching at his side with the need to reach out. “How do I know they will not take it while I’m here, that they will not….” He looked up, eyes wide with fear. “What if I cannot trust _you_?”

Bilbo’s throat worked, feeling the Arkenstone at his feet as if it could reach out and touch him. It was a wonder that Thorin could not see the guilt in his eyes, he felt he must glow with it, but there were greater fears now. He was looming over Thorin, his shadow between the dwarf and the door, possibly feeding his terror, and Bilbo let his legs give in to the shaky, jelly-like feeling they’d suffered that whole night. He sunk to his knees, and saw how Thorin track the movement with his eyes, his shoulders relaxing as Bilbo did so.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, scooting closer. There was not far to go, and crawling a short distance, he sat in front of the dwarf, inches from his lap. Thorin's gaze dropped, and he began shaking his head side-to-side, a hand rising to clench in his hair, the knuckles white, muttering something to himself in a frantic whisper.

 _Oh. Oh no Thorin, no_ … Bilbo thought, anguish tearing at his heart. Thorin looked lost, and Bilbo could not have stopped himself from putting out a fingertips to caress the top of Thorin’ hands, the one he used to grab at his own hair, making soft hushing noises. “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself,” Bilbo murmured.

Thorin stilled, hand easing as he looked up at Bilbo with surprise, and something approaching wonder. Bilbo seized the opportunity, disentangling Thorin’s hand from his hair and clasping it gently between them. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Thorin’s hairline, closing his eyes for a moment, just breathing, before he pulled away and looked Thorin in the eye.

“I’m here, Thorin. You can trust me,” Bilbo said. The words nearly froze on his tongue, and he forced past them to firmer ground. “And I promise I would never, ever hurt you.” 

 _Betray you, steal from you, and hold your most prized possession from you against your will, yes. But never hurt you._ Such thoughts rose up inside Bilbo so he thought they must hover around him like smoke. But his words at least were true, unless the hurt was from the lie itself, and for now Bilbo could only tell himself that the falsehood came out of a far greater love.

He saw the moment Thorin relaxed, shoulders easing as he took in Bilbo’s words. “You’re right. You’re right, of course you are,” Thorin said, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. He reached for his vambrace, turning his wrist and beginning to unbuckle it one-handed.

Bilbo took a deep breath, the seconds slipping by as Thorin undid the first of three buckles on one wrist before he felt calm enough to ask, “This does not look like an easy task for one, don’t all heroes have squires or something to help them in and out of armor?”

“Indeed, were it heavy plate it would be impossible to put on or take off without aid,” Thorin said without looking up, sounding more steady and focused than he had in some time. Bilbo filed the thought away for later. Asking Thorin a practical question, or giving him some task that did not involve protecting the gold, seemed to lift the shadow of the sickness. “But this is nothing of the sort. I do not need assistance.” He caught his tongue between his teeth as he freed the first vambrace and set it aside in the corner.

“Of course, I would not presume,” Bilbo said, settling back on his heels to wait.

The minutes ticked by, and Thorin hesitated. “Then again, it may take some time unaided. If it is not an imposition?” he said, and offered his right arm to Bilbo. With a flickering grin, Bilbo nodded, making short work of the vambraces, and once cast aside Thorin shrugged off the heavy outer coat and chainmail beneath. It nearly caught on his hair, had not Bilbo quickly moved to disentangle the strand, and once off it pooled like water in a heavy, clanking heap. Beneath it Thorin wore a simple black tunic, somewhat dirty from the metal, and imprinted with the impression of the links. Thorin glanced down at it, dusting his arm with a hand that came away dirty from the steel.

“That is better,” Thorin said, wonderingly. He sat now only in trousers and the tunic, along with the heavy socks that had been beneath his boots. It was… strange, and Bilbo blinked at the sight. He’d not seen Thorin so casually dressed since the immediate aftermath of the Mirkwood dungeons, what felt like a lifetime ago. Now mostly undressed, Thorin lounged with all appearance of comfort. He looked up, raising an eyebrow at Bilbo. “Was not the plan for you to take your rest here? You need not wait for me.”

"Indeed." Bilbo’s eyes narrowed with his own suspicion, that Thorin would allow him to sleep only to remain awake himself and on guard, as he had those many nights on the road. Bilbo slid down next to Thorin, punching up a bit of blanket at the end to make a makeshift pillow (the real pillows had been too musty to be borne) and had only settled in, shifting a little for comfort, when he struck.

Bilbo wrapped his arm around Thorin’s waist like a vine, dragging the king flat down to his level with an undignified squawk that leave Bilbo chuckle in an equally undignified manner. He hears a _clonk_ as Thorin’s feet hit the far door and the dwarf swore, his head falling back next to Bilbo’s. Thorin sputtered, staring at Bilbo who gave him no time to protest further, or indeed for his own inhibitions to return as he curled up around Thorin, putting his head on his shoulder and after a moment’s thought throwing an arm over his chest.

Thorin went still, and for a moment there was only the sound of their breathing. Then, Bilbo felt the trace of fingertips down arm, and lips pressed against the crown of his head, and a voice low and soft in his ear. “That was very rude of you, Master Burglar.”

“Hmm, dragging you down with me to bed? How shall I ever live with the shame?” Bilbo mumbled back, burying his face against Thorin. Thorin’s larger hand came up to cover his own, then traced down Bilbo’s arm and trailing his fingertips down the hobbit's back. Bilbo sighed, allowing himself a moment to ease into the touch and burrow closer against Thorin. Then Thorin’s hand slipped lower, settling on his hip and remaining there. The warmth seeped through Bilbo’s long shirt, and suddenly the position was not nearly as much access as he’d hoped, the stillness far more troubling than comforting. He could not feel truly settled at an angle where he could not see Thorin’s face, and judge his moods, whether he indeed rested at all or only brooded in silence.

Bilbo shifted, some heady and possibly suicidal instinct for mischief prompting him to push up further and sit astride Thorin, who’s hand still held steady at his waist. Thorin looked up just as Bilbo leaned in and captured his lips, and Thorin groaned into the kiss, arching against him.

Heat built between them, and he dared not to put it into words: where this may go, whether it should, whether it was all in his mind. It was difficult to countenance the last thought, because Thorin was pressing insistently against him, deepening the kiss, his breath becoming ragged and his taste in Bilbo’s mouth. Bilbo closed his eyes, content for a moment just to _feel_ , to judge the tiny changes in Thorin’s bearing by taste and touch instead of sight.

He did not know what he expected when he opened his eyes again. In so many ways, Thorin was still a mystery to him, but if he were asked, Bilbo might have said he expected dark desire. That one so formidable and commanding must be so also in more intimate pursuits. That when he looked down, Thorin’s eyes would be hooded, his touch hot and grasping, taking his pleasure with the same drive and violence with which he took each step towards the mountain. He would strive for control, and that shadow of greed in his eyes would take on new depth, a different form that Bilbo must be prepared for.

Bilbo cracked one eye open first, and then the other to stare outright.

Thorin’s hair was mussed, spread out around him on the bed, the silver threads glowing in the light of the oil lamp. His pupils were wide as he looked up at Bilbo, color staining his cheeks, his lips parted for breath. Heat radiated off of him, so different from that cold stiffness of the illness. As he breathed, he wetted lips, and Bilbo had never seen so lovely a sight in his life, nor one quite so shocking.

Thorin looked young. There was no other word for it. He looked young, and awestruck and as Bilbo stared his chin tilted downward as he looked up with new uncertainty. The shadows that darkened his visage were gone, and in there place was… light. As if Thorin shone from within, as he had when gazing upon the acorn. His chest rose and fell, and his eyes trained on Bilbo’s face with something like awe. It was in many ways the single, most unexpected moment of Bilbo’s life to have this effect on anyone, much less Thorin.

Yet here it was, and he could only sit there transfixed to see such a different person, different even than he had known on the road to Erebor. Was this the Thorin they might have had if not for Smaug? The prince in his own home, warm and alive, joyous and… in love. With Bilbo Baggins, the most unlikely people.

“Is something wrong?” Thorin said, concern entering his voice, and he began to prop himself up on his elbows.

“Hmm?” Bilbo said faintly, then shook himself free of the reverie. “No, oh, no not at all.” He hesitated.

“What?” Thorin said, the concern still, his brow furrowing.

“You’re beautiful,” Bilbo said honestly. He blinked, and frowned as his own words caught up to him, the improbable circumstances, how strange it all felt. “I don’t know how I didn’t notice before. Well, I did, but not… like this.” Was seeing beauty supposed to feel like heartburn? Was it supposed to make him feel dizzy and a little breathless and unable to tear his eyes away, even as he felt he was staring into the sun?

Thorin’s expression went blank, but it was a curious blankness that Bilbo had the strangest feeling was a mask. It was the same look he’d given Bilbo in Lake-town when he vouched on his behalf, or when Balin told the story of his legendary battle at Azanulbizar. Once he might have said it was acceptance, that one such as Thorin expected loyalty, and praise from his peers, and that one as objectively handsome as he was likely used to it in ways that would make Bilbo feel quite silly to even bring it up at all.

But perhaps, just before that expression closed up tight, there’d been the flicker of something else. Surprise, and more than that. An almost heartbreaking look of shock, lips parting and closing as some ruthless instinct for self control locked it all up inside. And Bilbo’s suspicions deepened as the silence stretched and that expression did not open again, nor did Thorin move from his half-crouched position, staring up at Bilbo sitting atop him.

“Well, are you going to say something?” Bilbo said, offering an uncertain little chuckle. “I don’t know, call me an idiot?”

“You are not,” Thorin said quickly. Again he went silent, offering no further comment, nor even break the long look to signal some kind of closure. It seemed a very real possibility then that he’d somehow shocked Thorin, and this was just the very confusing, dwarvish way of reacting by not reacting at all.

“It’s only that I should think you’re quite used to hearing such things.” Bilbo said, adding more softly, “But that unsettling stare is leading me to think that I’m wrong.”

“How might I believe them if they had?” said Thorin, his expression slipping just enough for a frown. “Who would say such things except the greedy, the covetous, the faithless who would use cheap words to buy their way into the line of Durin?” That shadow of suspicion threatened, that plaintive growl beneath the dragon sickness, but Thorin’s gaze drifted back to him, and cleared. The mask fell entirely, his eyebrows rose as he tilted his head to the side, an almost playful gesture if not for the sudden roughness of his voice. “No. I have not heard it so often as you may think. Not from anyone who mattered. Not from any I could trust.” With that his gaze drifted, flickering once down to Bilbo’s lips and back up again in a way that made Bilbo clear his throat and pause, as those words hit him.

A lonely life. How lonely he was just beginning to understand, and Bilbo felt he was looking down a dark tunnel that made up Thorin’s memories. Endless responsibility with little chance of joy, never knowing if a lover sought him or his line, if the loyalty of his friends was a pledge to him or his house.

Now with the dragon sickness, that suspicion was an endless bleakness, aggravated by fear that all those efforts, all that he had fought for, would be snatched away. Bilbo could only distantly compare it to his own struggles when he became Master of Bag End, when suddenly queer little Bilbo was the most eligible bachelor in Hobbiton, and the glint in those eyes was no longer interest but avarice for his cozy smial. He had not taken lovers after that point, at least none that were serious, and it took his breath away how much worse it might have been for Thorin, and yet the similarities. At least Bilbo had only needed to worry about himself.

“I can say it again if you like,” Bilbo said lightly, with a small grin that felt forced past the heaviness in his heart. “It’s not as if I’d use it to get any more than I’m getting now. Not that I would ever expect such a thing in the first place,” he added quickly.

“I know. As I said, I trust you,” Thorin said, and his hand trailed from Bilbo’s hip, taking Bilbo’s hand and pressing the knuckles to his lips. His breath tickled across Bilbo’s hand and he looked down at Bilbo’s hand, examining his fingers with interest. “I do not say such things lightly.” He looked back up again, those blue eyes searching. “Do you understand?”

“I’m not sure,” Bilbo said cautiously, disarmed at the gesture. It was becoming too easy to forget the illness, and how near the brink they teetered. How could it not be, when there was such a softness about Thorin right now, tentative and warm? “I think I’ve learned by now not to assume I understand anything about your people.”

Thorin huffed a soft chuckle, that look of humor remaining as he said, “It means, if you did wish to use it for more, I would not be against it.”

“Oh… oh! When you say ‘trust’ you mean…” Bilbo stuttered to a halt.

“As I said, I do not use it lightly,” Thorin said. “You seem surprised?”

“You’re not wrong. A few weeks ago I wasn’t even sure you liked me. You're not so obvious as you may think,” Bilbo said.

“Then it was my error,” Thorin said, and there was humor in the deep rumble of his voice. “That I was not clearer with my regard. But I would not force you, or take aught that you do not give freely. We can sleep.”

“Thorin, do _you_ want this?” Bilbo said. He felt he was skirting the issue, but there was the illness to consider. He did not know how it altered Thorin’s mind, if this would lead to anything they would regret.

Thorin was silent for a long moment. “An hour ago, I would have said I wanted nothing more than to have the Arkenstone back in its proper place above my grandfather’s seat,” Thorin said, and hesitated. “Now it does not seem so important. It feels… easier to think. Clearer.” He frowned, and looked up, and there was a question in his eyes. “Yes, if you would have me.” And maybe the Baggins side would have had him teetering on the edge there, caught in indecision.

The Took was having none of that.

Bilbo leaned in, Thorin’s mouth hot against his as he kissed him, and needy, as if with that final permission the last hesitation had burned away. Then Bilbo was fumbling at Thorin’s thin black tunic, stripping it up and over Thorin’s head and tearing his own off shortly behind, casting both aside without a second thought. He needed his hands in any case, because Thorin’s were everywhere. Hauling him closer as Thorin scooted them back so they were sitting upright against the wall. Kissing at his neck, at the pulse point in his throat and down to his collarbone, his beard a delicious scratch against Bilbo’s skin. Bilbo panted, looking up at the ceiling and the shadows of the oil lamp flickering there, grinding down into Thorin’s now-evident arousal.

“That didn’t take long,” he remarked between gasps.

“Who says it has only just begun?” Thorin growled back. “Your words are as tempting as your body, as your lips,” he said, taking the opportunity to remind himself of their taste. “I have been thinking of how I may deck you in jewels, how I may honor you at my side, in my bed.”

“Thorin....” Bilbo began.

“I know, you do not want them,” Thorin said, the words muffled as he stole another kiss.

“The bed alone is enough,” Bilbo said. He pulled away, pressing his forehead to Thorin’s and looking into those blue eyes. “I do not need King Thorin. Only you.”

“I do not even know who that is anymore,” Thorin said, sounding breathless. Sounding lost. His movements stilled, and he pulled back an inch, withdrawing into himself.

“Then let me show you,” Bilbo said, grabbing Thorin’s wrist, pulling him closer, pulling him back from that darkness. Would it always be like this? Would he always have to fight for every inch, to pull Thorin back from the edge of these doubts, from sickness, from danger, just to bring him somewhere safe and show him he was loved?

If so, Bilbo found he did not mind. It was worth it a thousand times over, just as the journey had been for all its perils, if this was the treasure that waited at the end. If this was the home he’d found on the other side of the world, with the most improbable of people.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like mood music, this chapter was written to "Touch" by Daughter.

It seemed not such a terrible idea, to begin with kissing and then trail downward. Bilbo nudged Thorin’s legs apart with his knees as he worked his way there, lingering over Thorin’s collarbone as his hands fumbled lower, and hesitated at the waistband of Thorin’s trouser.

His heart nearly stopped when Thorin brushed his hands away, a million fears and apologies rising to his lips in the space of a breath, only to have his hands moved higher to Thorin’s hip as the dwarf made short work of the laces on his own.

In the fumble of hands and the desperate need to kiss every inch of exposed skin, the trousers were only a distraction as quickly shed as the rest of the clothing. No sooner done than Bilbo was lingering over Thorin’s chest, peppering it with kisses that the fussy corner of his mind could not be bothered to protest.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Bilbo huffed against Thorin’s hip as he shifted to his knees. Thorin’s breath hitched at the brush of air, his skin pebbling as a shiver ran through him.

“I should…” Thorin said, one broad hand, tracing along Bilbo’s cheek. The hobbit looked up, seeing Thorin flushed with need. “I should take care of you as well.”

“It can wait,” Bilbo said. “This is my bower, after all. The rules of hospitality dictate that I take care of my guest.” He raised an eyebrow at this, lips tracing lower so they were only inches from Thorin’s cock, lying flushed and hard, waiting for him.

“It is my palace,” Thorin remarked, voice equal parts amused and tight with desire.

“My quarters,” Bilbo retorted. “And if you expect me to stay, then I should like to think my room counts as my private domain.” He had just turned his eyes back to his task, feeling the pound of blood in his ears as he turned his attention downward.

“You would stay?”

Bilbo hesitated, seeing the bead of pre-come glittering at the tip.

“… Yes,” Bilbo murmured, almost out of hearing. When he dipped down to take Thorin in his mouth he could not help but wonder if the startled, creaking shout was from sensation or surprise. He’d barely touched Thorin, yet he saw those broad fingers digging hard into the sheets, twisting them as if to shred them. There was a dull _smack_ as Thorin’s head hit the wall, his throat working as he stared at the ceiling with fluttering eyelids. His breath came in harsh gasps that held each in them a moan, and then an unexpected whimper.

“ _Bilbo_ …” Thorin said in a panting sob. His legs curled up, giving better access as he slid down the wall, boneless and fighting to offer more of himself. The shifting was difficult to manage for a moment, but Bilbo readjusted his grip so that his hand held the root, bracing himself and working it in time with his mouth so that the whole length was tended. He looked up at Thorin through his lashes, unwilling to miss even a second.

 _Beautiful, just beautiful_. The flush of passion rose up Thorin’s throat, staining his cheeks and he was warm and alive and _present_ as he had not been in so long. Writhing beneath Bilbo’s touch, the muscles of his abdomen fluttering as he struggled to keep his hips still, rucking the sheets with his feet.

He own cock was becoming uncomfortably hard with each moan torn from the depths of Thorin’s lovely throat. Thorin’s chest rose and fell with desperate, helpless gasps, and little surges of pre-come on his tongue told Bilbo that however long it had been since his last partner, whatever he was doing was having the desired effect. He wondered fleetingly if love had brought out a level of skill within him he never knew he possessed, or if this could even be Thorin’s first time. It seemed unlikely, but Bilbo realized belatedly that he had not asked, and did not know for certain. The thought that he was the first, that he was the only recipient of this bright desire and burning love was enough to make him dizzy with a surge of protectiveness. Whether or not it was Thorin’s first it was _their_ first, and he applied himself with a will, using his other hand to trace the inside of Thorin’s thigh, stroking and weighing his balls, pressing behind them in a useful little technique that he knew made the final result that much stronger.

“Bilbo, Bilbo please, oh… _Durin’s blood_ , _please_.”

Bilbo took his mouth away, working his jaw a little to get the feeling back, and asked cheekily. “Do you like it?”

“Yes!” Thorin said with a whimper that belied his size and dignity, and Bilbo’s grin was all the more wicked for it. “I am… _ah_ …”

Bilbo grinned, and went back to his work, enjoying the buildup as Thorin got closer, until he felt a hand on his curls, guiding his face up. A light sheen of sweat glistening on Thorin's chest and forehead. “Don’t… I'm… _ah_ … I want to feel you come, I want…” His head fell back, eyes closing as he took a steadying breath.

“Want what?” Bilbo said, leaning down to lick a stripe from root to tip. Thorin cried out and writhed beneath him, but once the shivers died firm hands settled on Bilbo’s shoulders and he stilled.

“Bilbo, stop.” He looked up, and saw something hungry in Thorin's gaze. “Come here.”

“But you haven’t…”

“I want you to take me.”

“I _beg your pardon_?” Bilbo yelped, pulling away from Thorin and staring aghast.

“I want to feel you,” Thorin said, his voice hoarse and his cock hard, red, and now slick between them. “If you will have me.”

Bilbo stared, stuttering, “But… but you’re… we don’t have anything to…” he finished lamely. His cock was twitching with interest at the idea, but he had never imagined Thorin would be one for it. Though this far along, Bilbo had not the presence of mind to argue.

“For the lamps. Up above. Should be fine,” Thorin huffed, leaning forward to trace his lips along Bilbo’s throat. The hobbit’s eyelids fluttered, and he only barely wrenched himself away before he could lose himself in it.

Bilbo rose and fumbled above them, finding a canister of the oil, pouring it experimentally onto his fingers and sniffing it. There seemed nothing wrong with it, and he ducked back down again, hesitating as he crouched once more between Thorin’s legs. The taste of Thorin’s pre-come was still on his lips.

“Are you sure you will be able to hold out that long?” Bilbo said, slicking the oil over his fingers and putting a hesitant hand on Thorin’s inner thigh.

Thorin gave a snort that held within it a breathy moan, but his voice was steady. "We were made to endure. Even an hour would be unforgivably short. Though…” He closed a hand around Bilbo’s, trembling. “Your touch is sorely testing that.”

“Flatterer,” Bilbo said. He licked his lips, and set a tentative finger at Thorin’s entrance. Thorin twitched, eyelids fluttering as Bilbo did not push in right away, but stroked lazy fingers over Thorin’s body, his inner thigh and arse, tracing lightly over his balls and up the shaft.

A shiver ran through Thorin that called in Bilbo an answering pulse of heat, but if nothing else the wariness of Thorin’s illness, and the nerves that came with any first time, were enough to keep his lust in check. It was long since he’d last done this, but it was hardly a skill one forgot, as he set the first finger inside Thorin. He felt the spasm of surprise and leaned in; peppering apologetic kisses along the lovely ripple of muscles in Thorin’s torso until he relaxed. Bilbo worked as patiently as he could, and he soon had Thorin twitching beneath him, head tossed back, throat working as he swallowed down deep gulps of air. His own cock ached at the sight. Then slowly, tentatively, Bilbo reached deeper in, fingers clever and seeking, seeking—

“ _Ah!_ ” Thorin’s back arched on the bed, his fingers twisting into the sheets as he ground down onto Bilbo’s fingers. A deep, sobbing gasp chased his cry as his movements rubbed Bilbo’s fingers harder against the spot. The head of his cock was leaking pre-come, and Bilbo had to set a steadying hand on Thorin’s hip to regain control, applying his fingers with a will as Thorin’s breath became labored. “ _Please_.”

“In a moment, a moment,” Bilbo muttered, not sure if he spoke to remind Thorin or himself. His tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth as he forced himself to slowness again, working Thorin open and trying very hard not to think of what was to come. It seemed Thorin had no such compunction. His back arched again, making it all the harder not to imagine what it would feel like, trapped in that tight heat and that it would be _Thorin_ , of all the impossible people. Clutching at him, grinding down for more. And as Bilbo looked he saw that between breathy sighs and harsher grunts at a particularly forceful jab, that Thorin was enjoying this.

His breath came out in deep huffs, and his eyes were closed, but his lips were parted and the flash of his teeth was not a grimace at all. The sight was arresting, such that Bilbo lost the pace of his movements, until a whimper from Thorin accompanied by a nudge of his hips reminded Bilbo to keep going. The idea was intoxicating though, that Thorin was not just wrapped up in pleasure but actively enjoying Bilbo’s touch, that something as simple as bedroom antics could drive all the care and shadows from his face. He seemed once more a person of the world in these moments of pleasure, no longer a distant and terrifying king.

“I—I think you’re ready,” Bilbo said some minutes later, voice breathy from the turn of his thoughts, from the lovely sight before him.

“I should think so, or I would soon have taken you myself,” Thorin growled, voice thick. Bilbo swallowed, using the oil left on his hand to slick himself and position himself between Thorin’s legs. For a fleeting moment he wondered if he should offer a different position, but Thorin’s eyes were open and watching him. That bright look was there again, soft and bright, lips parted, white teeth digging into his lip as Bilbo’s cock brushed his entrance, and his brow furrowed as Bilbo pushed inside, easy and slick from the long teasing.

Bilbo released a gasp he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as Thorin arched into him, fingers closing around Bilbo’s grip on his hips, locking them there, guiding him to thrust deeper. Thorin gave a shuddering breath, reaching down to wrap a strong hand around the length of his own cock. A groan wrenched from the depth of Bilbo’s chest at the sight of, Thorin’s face scrunched up in pleasure, the head of his cock disappearing and reappearing from behind broad fingers.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bilbo breathed, and felt a little jolt of alarm at his language, hand spasming on Thorin’s hip as he resisted the urge to clap it over his mouth. It seemed a fair assessment, nevertheless. Yet even as Thorin stroked he did not take heavily-lidded eyes off Bilbo and there was such a look in them, of pleasure and…adoration. If not for the lust sparking up his spine it might have made him fidget with embarrassment. It seemed impossible to be the center of such attention, from such a person especially. Admittedly, an out of place thought when currently wrenching little moans from that person as their body pulsed around his cock.

Overcome, Bilbo leaned in, capturing Thorin’s lips with his own, Thorin arching up to meet him in the middle. His cock was hot against Bilbo’s belly, the movement of his fingers arrested by the press of their bodies. Then he broke the kiss, and began fucking Thorin in earnest, his breath whuffing out of him as Thorin’s body tightened around him and Bilbo’s eyelids fluttered. The pace, the feel of it, everything was threatening to overwhelm him until he lost himself.

One particularly hard thrust and he heard a whimper. Bilbo slowed instinctively, only to feel Thorin’s fingers digging into his hips.

“ _Harder_ ,” Thorin snarled beneath him, and Bilbo opened bleary eyes with a frown of confusion. “I am not made of glass.” Thorin’s jaw was tight as he looked back and those…shadows, were back, nearly stopping Bilbo’s heart. He stopped moving, stopped breathing. Anger flashed over Thorin’s face and his teeth flashed as he growled. “Keep going. Make me _feel_ something.”

A faint grin flickered over Bilbo’s face, questioning, but it was not answered. Thorin’s eyes burned, and he had gone stiff, resistant. There was a brittleness that had not been there before. Bilbo freed a hand from where he’d clung Thorin’s shoulder, remaining still though Thorin ground down, unable to do anything but stare. He traced his clean fingers through Thorin’s hair, the silver at his temple, and saw those shadows waver as if under candlelight. Thorin trembled beneath him, yet that anger was still there, glinting like iron. “I said _harder_ , damn you. You can do better than this. _Hurt_ me.”

Bilbo froze, and swallowed, pulling half out as he recoiled on instinct. Yet Thorin’s thighs clamped around him, dragging him back.

“Why?” Bilbo finally managed, as the power of speech returned to him.

“Why not? It is the way of the world,” Thorin said, his voice, his eyes… everything about him, was hard and defensively set, even as he held Bilbo in place.

Bilbo looked down, his gaze tracing the scars on Thorin’s body, puckered pink and white, breaking the fine hairs that covered his torso. He remained still and Thorin shifted again, impatient, grinding down and drawing a whimper from Bilbo, so that when he spoke his voice was stuttering and choked, “Because I don’t want to…I don’t want be part of that world for you. I don’t. I won't be another thing that hurts you.”

“At least when I was hurt I _felt_ something,” Thorin said and his eyes are hard, his jaw, but Bilbo can feel his body, feel its tremors. “You must have dreamt of it, of taking revenge against me in some form for my slights. Take it now.”

But Bilbo was already shaking his head frantically, throat closing up and he leaned in, dusting his lips over the curve of Thorin’s throat. Thorin sighed, despite himself, tilting his head back to give better access.

“No,” Bilbo said with finality, punctuating it with a slow, easy slide back and forth that had Thorin shivering beneath him, flingers clutching at the sheets. “I won't. I will stop, but I won’t hurt you.”

Thorin snarled, a ragged sound ending in a whimper, hand seizing Bilbo's wrist. “I feel nothing of late, except when I am with the gold. And you. Don't you understand? I _must_ know if pain works. What you’re doing right now, is different. It’s too much, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.”

“You don’t like it when I’m gentle?” Bilbo said, and gave a slow, easy slide in and out. Thorin sighed, head falling back. “Should I stop?”

“No! I do,” Thorin panted. “I don’t want you to stop.”

“Then let us try it my way this time. It shouldn't have to hurt to be real.” Bilbo nudged Thorin’s hand away from his cock, and replaced them with his own, giving it a slow pump, fingertips ghosting over the surface. He began to move his hips again in earnest, the pace almost cruel in its slow steadiness.

He saw the moment Thorin’s breath began to speed up, and though the hard cast to his face remained, he began to move with it. Bilbo picked up the pace of his hand, but still the touch was gentle, barely there and that seemed to madden Thorin even further. Thorin reached up, bracing himself against the wall, not pushing down anymore but just…clinging. As if Bilbo did far more by this long, slow tease than he could have ever accomplished by rough use.

A shiver went through Bilbo at the first whimper that burst past Thorin’s lips, as his head began to turn from side to side, as if overwhelmed. The muscles in his abdomen spasmed, and his cock hard and hot between Bilbo’s fingers. Gentle treatment was undoing him in ways Bilbo had never dared to imagine.

Curiosity, an instinct breathless and unsure, prompted Bilbo to lean in, locking Thorin’s cock between their stomachs, trapped between his hand and the tidal movement of their bodies. Bilbo kissed his throat once, but then moved in closer, putting his lips to the shell of Thorin’s ear.

“I love you,” Bilbo whispered. “And I always will.”

Out of sight, Bilbo’s expression crumpled, at the sear of realization that he spoke the truth, and this ache within him would never fade or die. That it would always be there, consuming the place where his placid heart had once been. Perhaps there was nothing worse he could have done to both of them. Because he felt Thorin still, and when he dared pull back a bit he saw that Thorin was staring at him, eyes wide and face stricken beneath the blush of desire.

Then he tipped his head up, inviting another kiss that Bilbo obliged. Gentle as the brush of a butterfly’s wing, Bilbo felt such an emotion in him that he could now name and there was nothing now to interrupt the build of need.

He picked up the pace on Thorin’s cock, matching the movements to his own thrusts until Thorin was whimpering and crying out beneath him, again and again saying _please_ with no other direction, just a word that must be spoken.

It was the sight of Thorin beneath him, cheeks flushed, heels digging into the sheets, that drove Bilbo close to the edge.

It was the moment that Thorin’s eyes fluttered opened-- the blue bright and clear as he looked at Bilbo, as he reached up and gently clasped his chin, pulling him close for an open-mouthed kiss that burned like a star-- that tipped him over it.

Bilbo cried out into Thorin’s mouth, motions becoming frantic, and felt the hand that closed over his own, broad fingers speeding up the pace as his own body shivered from the wracking pangs of orgasm. _Ah_ … was all he could manage to gasp as his world narrowed to the pleasure in his veins, sparking behind his closed eyes.

The clench around his cock at the last moment made him open them again and he gave a groan as Thorin clenched around him, clutching at his shoulders and biting into his lip as he came, moaning helplessly into Bilbo’s mouth. Those strong arms wrapped around him, holding him in place as he bucked and gave a bitten off cry that rumbled deep within his chest and ended in a bone-deep shiver, before he lay still, gasping in the aftershocks.


	6. Chapter 6

They lay curled up against one another in the aftermath, Thorin’s body hot beneath him, his arms wrapped around Bilbo’s back. Bilbo’s cheek lay against Thorin’s shoulder, his head turned to take in the rise and fall of his chest, deepened by their exertion. Yet Thorin’s eyes he could not see, and as his breathing eased Thorin’s hand traced gentle circles around Bilbo’s back, then paused.

“Bilbo, what happened to me?” There was no grate or growl in Thorin's voice. Even still, Bilbo dared not speak at first. Sometimes hope is too difficult to speak around and he swallowed, and licked his lips and needed to close his eyes for a moment to steady himself.

“I don’t know but… but I think you’ve been ill. Do you feel better now?” His tongue tripped over the question, fear now a stuttering instinct within him that he’d push too far, reveal too much.

“I feel warm,” Thorin said, turning his face into the pillow. There was a listless, drugged quality to his voice.

“There was a fountain in the hall. I can get water to clean us?” Bilbo said.

“Hmm,” was all Thorin replied. The lovemaking seemed to have taken a great deal of his energy. His eyes were closed, and so Bilbo slipped carefully off, pulling on trousers and throwing his coat over his shoulders. By the time he came back, shedding the clothes again for a proper wash, Thorin appeared to be asleep. His skin was still flushed, and Bilbo knelt beside him, dipping the corner of a torn cloth found amongst the shelves into the bucket and stroking it over Thorin’s body.

Thorin’s hand closed around his wrist.

“Bilbo?” Thorin slurred. His eyes were heavy-lidded. “What are you…?”

“Cleaning you up, of course,” Bilbo said, transferring the cloth to his free hand and continuing the brush long, idle strokes over Thorin’s stomach. Thorin shivered, his skin pebbling at the contact. There was no warm water to be had, and the mountain streams that fed Erebor were frigid. “It will only take a moment.”

“Feels good,” Thorin mumbled. The exhaustion must have hit him harder than Bilbo anticipated. True, he too was feeling the edges of drowsiness from the stress of the day, not to mention their activities. But Thorin must have been made of hardier stuff, for he barely twitched as the cold water dripped across his skin, except to mumble something out of Bilbo’s hearing. Thorin’s back arched as he turned into the pillow, the dark hairs that lightly furred his chest a stomach a shadow in the flicker of the golden light of the lamps. Bilbo dried him, then set aside the bucket and towel.

Thorin was soundly asleep now, arm outstretched, opening a welcome space for Bilbo, who curled up beside him with a sigh. This close, he would know in an instant if Thorin awoke, and be ready for it.

That was indeed part of his reasoning. Yet it also felt right, and drowsiness of lovemaking made Bilbo’s own mind fuzzy, wanting nothing more than to feel Thorin’s skin against his own. To feel him, and be assured that he was there, safe and resting in Bilbo’s arms.

The world outside faded away, and Bilbo slept curled in Thorin’s arms…

 

…Only to awake bathed in sweat.

Bilbo sat up gasping, his first move to toss aside the thin sheet he’d used to cover them. The heat of Thorin’s body pressed against his own like a furnace and Bilbo scrambled upright, mustering his sleep-addled thoughts to some semblance of coherency as he struggled to understand the source of that _heat_.

It was unbelievable, trapped as it was by the blankets, and with the oil lamps burned out, the room was dark and the air close. Bilbo thought nothing of pushing the door open, allowing a shard of pale light into the room that fell across the bed and allowed in a gust of cool, fresh air.

He looked back, and saw Thorin’s hair fanned out over the pillow, his eyes closed in sleep and his chest rising and falling. There, the picture of peace ended. Thorin’s lungs huffed out each breath like a bellows, and whereas Bilbo’s skin had been soaked with his own sweat, Thorin’s was bone dry. His cheeks were flushed, and before Bilbo even put a hand to Thorin’s forehead he already knew what he would find.

Thorin was burning with fever.

“Thorin, Thorin wake up!” Bilbo hissed, shaking Thorin by the shoulders until he groaned and shifted.

“Bilbo?” Thorin said. His eyes were unfocused and he reached up to grip weakly at Bilbo’s hand.

“You’re burning up. I’m going to get Óin. Can you dress yourself?” Bilbo said. Water, he would have to get Thorin water, and rest. Perhaps he shouldn’t have woke him? His thoughts ran in panicked circles until Thorin spoke.

“Can’t…s’swallowing…” Thorin slurred.

“You can’t swallow?” Bilbo said. Thorin’s head slumped and Bilbo put a finger to his chin, guiding the dwarf’s gaze back to him.

“The gold…s’swallowing me,” Thorin said. There was a flicker in his glazed eyes, one of fear. “Can hear your voices. All your voices. Calling me. M’drowning…”

 _He’s delirious_ , Bilbo thought.

“Stay here,” Bilbo said and he was up like a shot, tugging on his short trousers and dragging his shirt over his head. He hesitated by the door, not sure if he should pull the sheet over Thorin’s naked form, but the dwarf had was curled up into the pillow, shivers racing along his dry skin. He ducked back, carefully bringing the covers up to Thorin’s chin, tucking him in, and then he was running, bare feet slapping on the stone floor as he scrambled around the broken masonry.

“Óin! Someone get Óin! It’s Thorin!” Bilbo shouted down from the banister overlooking the treasury. Far below, the dwarves sifted through the gold, seeming no larger than ants from this height. They turned at the sound of Bilbo’s panicked words, ringing out in the stillness of the treasure room of Thrór.

* * *

There was no time for embarrassment or hesitation. Óin did not grumble as huffed his way up the steps to the corridor of the royal wing, and this time Bilbo did not even notice as booted dwarves tramped into the room, though he did shoo most of them back before they could overcrowd the space.

Thorin shivered and groaned by turns, one minute dragging the sheet around him, the next struggling to kick it away. Óin crouched and put a hand to Thorin’s forehead, and then two fingers on his pulse point, though the latter hardly seemed necessary when he came away frowning.

“It’s a fever alright. Naught we can do but let him rest and make sure he gets plenty of fluids. It should run its course in a couple o’ days,” Óin said. A sigh of relief went up from the gathered Company, Bilbo notwithstanding. Until Dwalin cleared his throat.

“Could be a few days we don’t have. Those refugees are waitin’ on our doorstep, and they’ll not be content to stay there for long,” Dwalin said. Yet before Bilbo could protest, Fíli gave a huff of annoyance.

“They’re not ravening beasts Dwalin. They’re people, ones who have lost their homes. I should think the dwarves of Erebor would understand that,” Fíli said, and Kíli nodded beside him emphatically. Bilbo looked from the brothers back to Dwalin.

“Aye, we do, and we know what desperation will do to dwarves, much less Men,” Dwalin retorted, and a rumble went amongst the dwarves, some for and others against. Thorin shifted, panting on the makeshift bed, and Bilbo’s fraying patience snapped.

“Can we move this discussion elsewhere?” Bilbo exclaimed. Thorin’s brow was furrowed, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as the fever wracked him, and a troupe of dwarves crowding out all the breathing space was not helping. “Fíli, your uncle is not going to be well for a few days. You’re the heir, aren’t you? And I imagine Bard likes you well enough. You helped save his children, after all. Talk to him, perhaps he will see reason.”

Fíli blinked, and he was not the only one. Confusion rippled amongst the dwarves, except strangely enough for Óin.

“Aye, I’ve been sayin’ for days that you lot are actin’ like children, expectin’ Thorin to have all the answers even when he’s feelin’ poorly.”

“You were suggesting that we turn on our king,” Glóin said to his brother with an air of an old argument oft repeated.

“I was _suggestin’_ that you let Fíli here get a bit o’ practice at kinging, and let Thorin have a breather. Decisions out of our hands anyway. You’ve worked him down to the bone, if not an early grave with the burglar’s help.”

“I say!” Bilbo bristled, a blush rising to his cheeks that was equal parts anger and mortification. “You can’t be blaming me for this, it’s not as if I planned it!”

Óin cast a glance back at him, then turned on the Company. “Oi, the lot of you, clear out. Burglar’s right, you shouldn’t all be crowdin’ a place o' rest like this.”

Óin was not typically considered a leader of the Company, even with the seniority of age his partial deafeness made it a challenge for him to field commands in battle, but in matters of healing he was the unchallenged master. The other dwarves did clear out though, still grumbling arguments to one another about the scandal of allowing one king to rule while another still lived.

“Aye, you didn’t plan it, but you certainly helped,” Óin said once they were alone, save for Thorin’s sleeping form. “I may even have to thank you for it. I’m not sure anyone else could have drawn it out of him like that.”

Bilbo paused, protests ready on the tip of his tongue. “What are you saying? That anything I could do or… or love, for pity’s sake, was enough to draw Thorin out of his illness?”

“ _Love_?” Óin barked. "Who said anything about love? I leave that to the two of you to work out, Old Durin knows you’ve taken long enough to stop mooning over one another and get it over with.” Bilbo’s mouth worked but Óin plowed on. “I meant bedding him! Drove his temperature right up, it did. Probably what we’ve needed the whole time to get this fever out of him. Had I known all it took was a bit of exertion, I would have had him out runnin’ laps around the mountain instead of moping over the gold. It’s like walking pneumonia, lad, it won’t get better until you give the body a little nudge.” He looked down at Thorin. “Or a big one. You really wrung him out, didn’t ye?”

Oin chuckled and gave an absolute horror of a saucy wink at this, which Bilbo may have reacted to with an explosion of indignation, were he not already paralyzed by humiliation. “We didn’t… I mean, even if we did, it wasn’t… I do believe that’s none of your business!”

“My ears are broken, lad, not my nose,” Óin said, putting a gnarled finger to the side of his nose. “Or my eyes. I know what’s happening, and that it was bound to happen, even if you lot were too thick to see it. The rest of us were takin’ bets on how long until you two came ‘round.”

 _“Bets_?” The word came out a shriek, but before Bilbo could work himself up further, Thorin gave a pained groan and all thoughts of embarrassment fled. Bilbo was at his side in a flash, crouching down beside Thorin’s prone form.

“I’ll leave ye to it. Get him to drink if you can, and let me know if he takes a turn for the worst. I’ll go get ye some more water and have the lads bring food around, so be good.”

Yet Bilbo was studiously ignoring Oin, and so did not hear as the dwarf ducked out, shaking his head as he muttered to himself, “Probably couldn’t pry you away in any case…”


	7. Chapter 7

It began before they even reached Lake-town.

A wind blew down from the mountain, and it carried with it a scent like decaying perfume, dusty and dead with a hint of lingering sweetness. One moment there, the next gone. He turned, seeking the bewildering scent of memory on the air, and saw it. The Lonely Mountain rose in the distance like a claw against the sky, and like a claw it buried its hook into his flesh.

From then on, the world grew hazy whenever he looked to the mountain, as if caught in a summer heat wave. Reality lost its sharp, clear focus, and time its certainty. An hour passed while he brooded on the sight of the windlance, gone in a blink, when suddenly Bilbo was there, speaking of ghosts, and Thorin snapped to. The world was once again solid and real in his presence, the scent of decay fading with the breeze off the lake, and when Thorin looked back to the windlance it was no longer a specter of all that was lost, but only a battered relic, of no greater worth or importance. Thorin shook his head, and set his mind once more to recovering their lost home, though his unease at the lost time lingered.

That scent lingered too, like dead flowers and ash, haunting him and dogging his steps. On the mountainside he thought it gone for good, banished by a wind from the north and the light of the moon revealing the hidden door. The cleansing fire of victory burning away all those fears and doubt like cobwebs.

The door opened. The long corridor lay beyond with its stench of memory and death, the air of Erebor now mixed with the ashes of its people. Bilbo entered the mountain as if consumed by the maw of a beast, and the world darkened at the edges. Bilbo was within and he… he was on the doorstep, like a beggar at his own house, for some reason, some reason…

The mountain quaked. The dragon woke.

Heedless of the rumbling, of Gandalf’s warning, of the scent of death, Thorin ran in, and the world collapsing with every step. Around him were falling stones, falling dust, falling fragments of reality showering down on him like the broken tesserae of a mosaic. And what he found within was not Bilbo, but instead a grinning specter, teeth flashing in a nervous grin, mocking Thorin with the Arkenstone hidden behind its back. A sickly light radiated from the hoard, casting their shadows in black and gold against the wall.

He fell. Into nightmare and shadow, into a world with nowhere to turn, no one to turn to, and nothing to grasp, the threats as looming and insubstantial as mist.

He lost the Company, and cruel facsimiles, leering figures in the guise of his kin, replaced their forms. They jeered and jibed at him, greedy and grasping, waiting to steal all his real kin had had sworn to help him reclaim. Or perhaps his kin had always been thus, the thought a monstrous terror of its own. Perhaps they had only waited for the light of the gold reveal their true forms.

But whether treachery it be, or possession by some evil spirit, they could not be alerted of Thorin’s knowledge. He must be cautious; he must pretend he did not see, did not know, lest they turn on him.

No, not just him. Bilbo was there too, beyond enchantment and reproach, his true form revealed when Smaug turned the corner, and Thorin had seen that Bilbo’s fear was for the beast, rather than deceit or guilt over a stolen stone. Still, he could not be sure. The shades were cunning, and perhaps they only hid in the shadows behind Bilbo’s eyes.

The days grew darker, and Thorin’s nights ever-watchful. He dared not sleep. Food tasted only of ash in his mouth, to be quickly swallowed in as small quantities that could be choked down. Then he was up again, patrolling, counting the gold and guarding his city. Thorin Oakenshield was no more; the one who had borne the name had only been a fragile creature after all, a paper knight who could not even slay the creature that had given him the name.

But oh, a king? A king may defend his own. He had his wealth, he had his palace, and all he had ever desired was there, it was there, and he need not hunger again for all that was lost.

Why then did he feel that all spilled between his fingers the tighter he tried to grasp it?

* * *

No, something was not right.

What had he missed? Thorin had not slept, had not allowed rest to dull the keen sharpness of his eye, ever roving, ever seeking the source of the deceit. He was only one dwarf, he could not be in all places at once, but the king could know. The king could feel each gold piece as if it were part of his own flesh, and keenly feel its loss should it be taken.

Why then did he not know? When could he not _see_? Treachery all around him, yet he was blind to the source.

What if he had been wrong, what if it was not his kin, or not only them? What if the treachery lay closer? What if he could not feel where the Arkenstone had gone because it had never… been taken…

Bilbo held something in his hand.

There was a light reflecting in his face, a light that Thorin saw whenever he looked upon the hobbit. But what if there was no light at all, but the rather the Arkenstone in his hand, reflecting on his features? What if Thorin had been wrong, so very wrong? The anger rose within him like a living thing, choking the fear that welled in equal measure, that if it were true he would have the stone, and he would be alone among enemies.

Bilbo drew an acorn from the folds of his coat.

An acorn. So out of place amongst the stone and metal of Erebor that Thorin could only blink for a moment, uncomprehending. He stared at it, and the up to Bilbo’s face, seeking some sign of deceit. But Bilbo’s expression was blank, and around his hand and face the world was sharper, clearer. It seemed a joke, and indeed laughter welled inside Thorin, and joy, and his face felt curiously stiff until he realized he was smiling.

Thorin breathed in, and out, and he was _there_ , silent for the awe of it. Who knew yet what lay beyond the darkness of the door, or behind the eyes of his kin, but here at least with the two of them there was nothing to fear. If there was treachery hidden in Bilbo’s eyes, Thorin could not see it, not when Bilbo reached up and threading his fingers through Thorin’s beard, until his hand came to rest on his cheek. He was gazing up into Thorin’s eyes and the relief was there, choking him, the calm that settled between them easing him. He wanted nothing more than to close that distance.

Then Bilbo rose up on his toes, and gave Thorin all he wished for in that moment. His lips were soft, softer than Thorin’s own, which scraped against them. Bilbo hesitated, for of course he could not read Thorin’s thoughts, the heat that was welling deep within him.  Of course, Bilbo was afraid he had gone too far, as only one who truly cared would be. Thorin could taste that fear, and sought to soothe it.

He kissed Bilbo again, and soon it was not enough, as he cast off his gauntlets and cupped Bilbo’s face, feeling its exotic softness, cherishing the brush of heat against his lips and within. The world around was cold but here at least there was a gentle melting: of fear, of cold, of all that separated Thorin from reality as if by a pane of warped glass. He did not know when he had lifted Bilbo, but felt the intoxicating clench of his legs around Thorin’s waist, and there is a sound at the edge of his hearing but he ignored it.

Of what use was the outside world, which only threatened and terrified, when Bilbo was leading him through the halls of his home? Thorin still resisted the idea that he needed sleep, but the if Bilbo had need them perhaps he may wile away some time in his company, to guard the hobbit’s rest. He had begun to suspect that the others of the Company may wish Bilbo ill, and this Thorin would not abide. Nor would he force Bilbo to take any actions with which he might be uncomfortable, for Thorin would rather take a blade to himself than hurt Bilbo, this last tether to a world of comfort and light where all else was shadow.

Even so, he could not deny his own excitement, a cautious, teasing thing, at the thought of another meeting of lips, of perhaps tasting more, and a moan rumbled at the back of his throat as Bilbo granted him another kiss by the door.

Joy was a stream Thorin thought long stopped within himself, ever since opening the hidden door had brought all harsh realizations crashing down around him, drowning him in a world of chaos and betrayal. Yet it flowed now, a cautious trickle, and he could not stop his snort of amusement at the sight of Bilbo’s ‘bower’. A linen closet indeed, with shadows yet hiding in the corners even when he lit the lamps to banish them, waiting for pain, for any hint of treachery, but for a short while he may believe Bilbo’s words, and melt into his touch.

For Bilbo’s touch was gentle and knowing, as if he too could see the darkness, as if he had the power to drive them away. His lips brushed Thorin’s forehead, his temple, down his nose to his lips. Bilbo tasted of the smoky sweetness of tobacco. He tasted of comfort, and the lingering sharpness of fear but Thorin could not blame him for that. After all, they were alone within the mountain, surrounded by enemies, their gold threatened on all sides.

After all the kisses and coaxing, Thorin lay soft and unclothed, exposed on the makeshift bed, with Bilbo tracing downwards, leaving him breathless with anticipation, with trepidation and desire, until Bilbo took him in his mouth and the world went white.

Thorin's body seized as if struck by the lightning Bilbo once feared. He cried out, whimpering without a trace of shame, for in that room there was no space for stiffness or fear, there was no room for the king, who would disdain such modest surroundings. He was only a creature of need now, one consumed to the very edges of his being so that he was only traces of Thorin. The rest was desire, and all belonged to Bilbo. Perhaps it always had, ever since Thorin dreamt of such intimacy in the fastness of his thoughts, those secret hours in the dark while others slept.

Yet he had not imagined Bilbo tending him, or Bilbo’s lips on him, no. He had thought himself in control, as ever. Offering pleasure as payment to make up in some small fashion for the insults, the disdain, for the coarseness with which he had once treated Bilbo, which he could never fully believe were so easily forgiven.

The world was shivering apart with each stroke of Bilbo’s lips and tongue along his length, and when he looked down and saw Bilbo looking back through his lashes, Thorin’s lust surged so that he was choking on it, helpless against the tightening in his lower body, the rush of breathlessness, with a realization.

Thorin loved him.

So helplessly and terribly the thought was a shock of its own, a feeling long running in his veins only now finding a name in his mind. It was a terrible realization, when Thorin realized that he would part with all the hoard, every coin and jewel that was his to give, if only he be allowed this one point of light in his life.

The thought rang clear in his mind, and though he was no longer so certain who the hoard needed defending _from_ , it did not matter because there was a certainty beneath it like bedrock: that he was where he needed to be, and in this tiny, modest room, where all that had wavered out of focus finally fell into place.

He whined as Bilbo swallowed him deeper, the motions grown frantic, and shivering, pulsing need thrummed through Thorin’s body. He was… he could not… it was not enough. He begged, some babbled words of desperation, and when the words fell together it was only to plead that Bilbo take him before it ended too soon. There was more he desired, not with the protective covetousness of the gold, but rather with the open and receptive need to taste and feel all Bilbo chose to share with him.

When Bilbo acquiesced he was lost. Lost in the pleasure of it, in Bilbo’s fingers working within him both gentle and inexorable and he was writhing against them. It seemed impossible for a body to be thus transformed from a creature of stone to one of fire, from a king to a begging lover, for he was begging in a stream of nonsensical pleas.

It was too soon, and Bilbo was so careful to not hurt him. Thorin’s breath hissed between his teeth and all he wanted was Bilbo, inside him, _now_. To be given that wish made all others seem trivial, for soon Bilbo was inside him and Thorin’s skin sparked as every inch of him gave in to pleasure, into Bilbo driving into his pleasure spot, again and again, until it edged up in _to_ _pain_. _Pain like lightning flashing in his mind, and in that jagged light all became clear. Clear and cleansing, he saw the world for what it truly was. Saw Bilbo’s treachery outlined and he could almost see it for what it was, a realization teasing at the edge of his mind._

_He trusted Bilbo, and that should have been sign enough. Trust may be built for centuries, only to be hammered down in a bared moment of truth, in a moment of need and vulnerability when all oaths are revealed as nothing. The realization made everything clear, even as it crushes him. All the ills he had committed against Bilbo were not forgotten, only waiting for this moment where Thorin was naked and wanting beneath him, and it was clear, so clear…_

Bilbo slowed, looking down at Thorin askance. The clarity faded, all that had been so known and certain going with it, and now the world is muddled again, with pleasure once more teasing the edges of his senses.

 _No_ , he needed it back, he needed to _see_.

 _Harder_ , he snarled. There was the answer, if he could only _feel_ then all that had been hidden from him would be revealed. He had been too consumed in comforting dreams of gold, in his own victory, and treachery had taken him unawares. Only pain would reveal what he had missed. _Make me feel something_.

 _Why? Why not, it is the way of the world_ , he said, because it was true. Bilbo was wavering above him, half lover, half leering creature of shadow. Here was Bilbo’s true face, and he had only been waiting, allowing Thorin to become accustomed to gentle use, only strike him once he was most vulnerable and _ah_ , was that so terrible? He had never truly asked why Bilbo had not found the Arkenstone when he was the first into the hoard and why should he turn it over to Thorin if he had found it? For Thorin had sent Bilbo alone into the den of a dragon and it would be well within Bilbo’s right to hurt him, and Thorin knew he would accept it, desperate creature that he was. If he could not have gentleness, if this love must ever be a façade then might Bilbo at least tear this wall that makes the world waver and shift like a fever dream. He would sink into such illusions and accept them, for he was tired, tired of denying himself everything and losing all to treachery. Perhaps, this time, he could let it swallow him.

Because if Bilbo too was false, if he too wished Thorin ill, then Thorin would have it out. He would let Bilbo take him rough if it meant driving out whatever demons of vengeance yet lingered in his heart. Let there be pain if there could also be some small trace of love, for fool that he was he would take it if it meant keeping this one connection that remained. Thorin knew not what he would do if it vanished. So he would cling, desperate and pathetic. He would let Bilbo take that vengeance, for the alternative was unthinkable, to lose this as well would be the true ruin of him, to be left to a world that was nothing but shadowy forms that leered and danced their vengeance and bewildered him and stole and _lied…_

“No,” Bilbo said simply. The words rang out, echoing in the chaos of Thorin’s thoughts, cutting through them. And all went silent, still. “I will not.” Bilbo punctuated the words with a gentle slide, in, out, and Thorin was gasping, writhing, and felt he may break because the pain was gone, and the clarity, and he was, he was…

Bereft, in a world that no longer made sense, the ground shifting beneath him, and Bilbo was speaking nonsense, dreams of a world without pain, some tale of softness that was so far from all Thorin knew, saying he would not be part of _that_ world, the one that hurt Thorin, and he did not understand, for what other world was there?

He does not ask, cannot, for Bilbo is threatening to stop and he is greedy for more. Not for gold, but touch, for this veil of nothingness that has so enshrouded him since he entered the mountain to burn away. Though he could not understand he wanted at least to _feel,_ anything at all, whether it be pain or this bewildering gentleness Bilbo offered. He wanted… he wanted his life as he had once felt it, the fire and clarity, the solid earth beneath his feet, and his companions at his back, and Bilbo at his side and the smile as they looked out to the mountain and breathed the word _home_.

He wanted that moment back as much as he wanted this one to continue, with Bilbo taking him apart with gentle kisses and caresses. Thorin’s own shivering gasps echoed in his ears, and the build of pleasure was slow, as inexorable as it was irresistible. Bilbo looked down at him, and there is a flicker across his feature of love, and grief, that is both soft and terrible at once and he was leaning in to whisper into the shell of Thorin’s ear.

 _I love you.._. It was the sound of something fragile breaking, as if Bilbo too was breaking at the admission, and he was burying his face against Thorin’s neck and even in rush of sensation he felt the trace of dampness. _And I always will…_

And Thorin knew.

That the world was there beneath him, real and solid, and it had never really been gone. Only misplaced, and Bilbo would be there steady him upon it, and now as they looked into one another’s eyes Thorin knew that he must steady Bilbo as well. That if this was love that existed between them, it was new for both of them. It was pleasure and pain, hazy and clear. And what a terrible thing to be alone with such a realization, and not only for Thorin. It was for both of them, locked in this most intimate of moments, and there was nothing he could offer to Bilbo in thanks, in return, except to be himself once again.

So Thorin tilted his head up, and kissed Bilbo with all the gentleness he had been offered. He hoped Bilbo could feel the words he whispered against them, that he was there now, and somehow they had reached the end of that darkness, and he was sorry for doubting, for believing Bilbo was the only one with power, when in truth both were powerless against the other. But that fear was over now, and even if all should yet fall to ruin they would at least have this.

There were sparks in Thorin’s veins, and in his eyes, and the heat of that understanding burned away those last layers of fog. Bilbo’s lips burned against his like a star, and he shuddered, whimpered, and clutched at Bilbo, holding him close as they made love and the world was all heat and fire. It burned.

 _He_ burned.

And in that quiet that followed as both lay shivering side by side in the aftershocks, a new darkness enveloped him. Not the unnatural shadow of the soul, but the velvety black of unconscious as the world fell away around him, down and down and down…


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we reach the end of our tale.

Thorin awoke with a gasp, eyes flying open, his hands already moving to tear away the suffocating heat of the blankets that swallowed him. They came away wet as if doused in seawater, soaked through with sweat. The bed beneath him was damp as well and Thorin sat up, clutching at his head. His body shook with weariness, and he fell back against the wall as his head spun at the sudden motion. The stone wall was cool through his soaked shirt as he panted for breath. Then he blinked, eyes widening.

He could see. The world was sharp as it had not been in so long, bright with clarity. The stone of Erebor surrounded him, and the scent of his home, though tainted with dust and the stench of the dragon he was _here_ , he was _home_. As if all that had befallen his people since the dragon came was only a waking nightmare.

Now ended. It was too much to take in, the reality so bright it was searing. Though his body was weak and shaky, Thorin rose on wavering knees, clutching at the wall for balance. It was not a bedroom at all, but Bilbo’s bower, the little room he had set aside for the two of them. Where they had gone to rest and regain the strength needed to re-enter a world of treachery and he remembered, oh he remembered…such relief and sweetness, his body alight as it had not been for time out of mind, and Bilbo moving above him, his lips burning like a star, and the cleansing fire that tore through Thorin’s soul.

It was a short walk across the room, and yet he very nearly did not make it. Thorin fell heavy against the doorframe, catching onto it as he opened the door and stepped into the light.

Bilbo and Balin stood just outside in the corridor, speaking in hushed whispers, and both looked up at the sight of Thorin. There was fear in their eyes, though fear of him or for him he could not say. Bilbo’s fingers twitched compulsively at his side as if to reach up and catch Thorin as he clutched at the wall. The long shirt they’d dressed him in clung to his body in sweaty patches, and he shivered and shook in his weakness.

“Where are the others?” Thorin croaked.

This snapped them from their stupor, and Balin spoke first. “Seeing to the refugees. Fíli and Kíli are probably speaking with Bard at this moment.”

“Fíli and Kíli?” Thorin said sharply. “They’re here?” He had seen them, or thought he had, in the swirling shadows in his memory, but he could not tell if they were only one of many tricks played upon his mind by those leering phantoms. He stumbled forward, catching Balin by the shoulder and looking wildly into his eyes. “Tell me they’re alive.”

“Thorin, they’re fine,” Bilbo interjected. He had reached out a hand to steady Thorin, and was studying him with concern. “You’ve seen them, spoken to them. How can you not…?”

But Bilbo’s words faded as the world darkened at the edges. The sudden movement had sapped what little energy Thorin had. He wavered on his feet, and had only a glimpse of Bilbo’s mouth widening into an O of warning when the floor rose up to meet him.

* * *

The second time Thorin awoke, Bilbo was beside him. He glanced up at Thorin’s shifting, his face lined with concern.

“How are you feeling?” Bilbo said, his voice quiet, anxious. His eyes were shadowed and his hair tousled as if he had spent many nights awake. He looked exhausted and worn, and Thorin could not look away. He remembered reality wavering in his memory, but always beside Bilbo the world was at its clearest.

Thorin sat up, pressing a hand to his face. His whole body ached as if he had been beaten, and even the act of sitting upright made his muscles tremble and protest so that he leaned back against the wall with a groan. “Thirsty.”

Bilbo started, and began fussing with a copper mug that he filled from a pitcher at his side. He made to pass it to Thorin, but then thought better of it, holding the mug to his lips instead. Thorin drank gratefully, the water hitting his parched throat like a blessing, and he downed it all in a long swallow, closing his eyes with relief. The water brought with it some vitality, enough for Thorin to take stock of his current state. Besides the ache in his limbs his stomach grumbled a quiet background hum and his tongue felt swollen in his mouth even with the water had drunk. He could not remember being so weakened since the brief moment waking on the Carrock, and before that only from childhood illnesses.

“What happened?” Thorin rasped, forcing his eyes open again in time to see Bilbo hesitate, and set the cup aside.

“How much do you remember?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin went silent as he cast his mind back, and found there a patchwork of disjointed memories and fragmented images. Like a fever dream, he remembered leering figures, the glint of gold, and constant suspicion sitting like lead in his belly. Fear and euphoria equally mixed, as he felt both whole and empty at once.

“I remember you,” he said honestly. “I remember what we did here.”

At this, Bilbo flushed scarlet and stammered, “Well, that is, yes, I should hope so! But I am dreadfully sorry, if I had realized you were so ill, with the fever I mean, I would never have…”

Thorin reached out and clasped his hand around Bilbo’s, ending his frantic gestures. “It is a good memory.”

This cut the tirade short, but Bilbo did not look any less embarrassed, and he stared down at their clasped hands. He fidgeted, idly running his free hand over Thorin’s,

“For me as well. Do… do you remember anything else?”

“It was cold, and there was fear around every corner,” Thorin said slowly, tasting each word as he spoke it, struggling to encapsulate that place of shifting images and the shimmer of gold. “But there was also joy. The knowledge that none may now doubt my worthiness, because the gold returned all that we had lost. But I saw in every shadow those who would try to take it from us, and if they succeeded I would be no more than… myself again.” He looked up at Bilbo. The words tasted bitter and jagged in his mouth. “The thought was unbearable.”

“Thorin…” Bilbo said, seeming at a loss.

“Yet you made it not seem so terrible,” Thorin continued, offering as best he could a comforting smile. “To be only myself again, to not have my worth be a slave to the gold I possessed. You reminded me that there was at least one person who did not plot my ruin.” He gazed on Bilbo, still smiling, and the hobbit blushed further, the tips of his pointed ears going red.

“Well, I’m glad I could be of some small help,” Bilbo said, flustered. Thorin’s smile broadened at this and at the sight of it Bilbo gulped.

“More than some,” Thorin said, raising both eyebrows. “It was a fortunate day when Gandalf foisted a master burglar upon our Company.”

Bilbo looked as if he was about to protest further, but at that moment there was a commotion outside, and the door opened to reveal Dwalin framed by the light of the corridor. Bilbo jerked his hand free of Thorin’s as if burned, but Dwalin waved dismissively. “Don’t be jumping on my account, I wouldn’t want to split up the love birds a second time.

While Bilbo was still sputtering over this, Dwalin turned to Thorin. “I thought I heard your voice. Are you back with us, Thorin?”

“A dangerous question to ask if I were not,” Thorin said softly as he looked up at his friend.

Dwalin grunted, more in acknowledgement than agreement, for the thought seemed to rock him back on his heels. Trepidation flickered across his features, and behind it a fleeting look of loss, as if he had never truly considered that Thorin could have been a danger to others in that state. The expressions were minute, invisible to any who did not know Dwalin well, but to Thorin he might as well have shouted. “Glad that’s over then,” Dwalin said.

Which was as close as Thorin would likely ever get to hearing Dwalin say he had missed him. It would be unnecessary in any case. He had missed Dwalin as well.

Thorin swallowed as a memory struck him, colored by a haze of flickering lights and wavering rage: the orders he had roared at the Company, at his family. Back then he had seen them as enemies to be used, distracted, with the search for the Arkenstone so they did not have time to realize that Thorin knew the truth: that they were shadows clothed in the guise of his kin. At the time his fear had made it real, but now he saw the truth and his stomach twisted as he saw too how he must have appeared: as a snapping, snarling tyrant, no better than a beast. Yet they had obeyed, out of love and loyalty he had been too blind to see.

“Now, Thorin, about those refugees,” Dwalin began; only to be cut off by Bilbo’s outraged squawk.

“Dwalin, he’s been awake five minutes! For pity’s sake, can you not give him a moment?”

But Thorin waved Bilbo down, propping himself up straighter against the wall. The wave of dizziness that came with the motion that made his arms shake and his head light. “What about them?” It was only natural that there would be refugees from Lake-town, if his memory of Smaug falling from the sky like a meteor was indeed true, and not a fever dream.

Dwalin looped his thumbs into his belt as he spoke. “Fact is, Thorin, between the Lake-town folk, Dáin’s army, and those bastard elves, we’re havin’ a bit of a space problem until we can get more rooms cleared. Now, the rebuilding continues apace, sure enough, but it’s damn slow going with splittin’ our time clearing all the dead orcs off our doorstep. Now Fíli’s talking of splitting us further to send some of the lads to help rebuild Dale. Durin knows the Lake-town folk know nothing of stonework, and the faster we get their city up the faster we can get some peace around here. I’m thinkin’ we go with Fíli’s plan, but since you’re up we thought it better to run it by you first.”

Thorin stared, blinking at the flood of information, and said intelligently, “What?”

* * *

Eventually Thorin got the whole story out. Not long after he and Bilbo had retired to the bower, Dwalin and the others had apparently spotted the Lake-town refugees amassing in the ruins of Dale. Why Dwalin had not alerted him immediately, the other dwarf would not say. But once the fever set in, there had been an almighty row between the other dwarves, half arguing that it was treasonous to have two kings reigning at once, and so they would simply have to wait until Thorin was better to take any action, with the other half spearheaded by Bilbo and Óin arguing that there was no knowing when that would be, and that a regent would have to be appointed in the meantime. A compromise had been struck with both sides agreeing that Fíli, as the heir, could act as Thorin’s temporary representative, just in time for Bard to ride up to the broken gates of Erebor, left wide and gaping by Smaug’s passage, to demand the share of the gold promised by Thorin in order to rebuild a new home for his people in Dale.

Fíli had done one better, urging Bard and his people to join the dwarves inside the walls, at least until the winter passed. By then, dwarves craftsmen would have arrived from Ered Luin to aid in the reconstruction of both cities. That might have ended the conflict with an amicable truce, if not for Thranduil choosing that moment to arrive with his army and demand the gems of Eryn Lasgalen be returned to him now that Smaug was dispatched.

“That ugly thing?” Thorin groaned, placing a broad hand over his eyes. “The gems are fine enough, but the design he gave us… Never mind. Go on.”

Dwalin had taken action then. Rightfully wary of an army on their doorstep, Dwalin had sent a raven to Dáin for help against the elves should the negotiations turn to the violence both sides seemed eager to have.

The elves had been quite content to remain in the ruins of Dale, disdainful of the lack of light within the mountain, and hoping to coax Bard to their side with the promise of desperately needed supplies. Both elves and dwarves ended up once again in the age-old battle to woo the Men of the region to their side, one offering food while the other offered shelter and future trade. This in itself may have led to war, if not for the arrival of Gandalf with word of an army come down from Dol Guldur, seeking to claim Erebor as they had once stolen Moria and Gundabad. The elves had been quick then to accept Fíli’s invitation to take shelter within the mountain, behind the newly reconstructed wall over the gate, and luckily they brought their supplies with them.

What followed might have been a protracted siege, one Thorin doubted they could have long withstood with so many mouths and so little food. The orcs had amassed outside the gate, ready to bring death to the Dwarves, Men, and Elves within, if not for Dáin’s arrival. The dwarves of the Iron Hills came screaming down the slope, throwing the orcs into confusion just as the Elves and Men came charging out the gate, along with the rest of the Company. Then the eagles had arrived to mop up Azog’s reinforcements, and Beorn had made an appearance as well…

Thorin at this point wondered if he was still caught in the fever’s delirium as Dwalin continued on to list an increasingly improbable series of events.

“Azog is dead?” he said in a choked voice.

“Aye, Dáin saw to that,” Dwalin said without further elaboration, which was probably for the best. No doubt Thorin already looked as if he had been poleaxed.

“And all this happened while I slept?” Thorin said.

“Ye slept a week, Thorin. I can’t help it if the world kept spinning while you were under.”

“I should have been there.” Thorin said, shaking his head and struggling to rise to his feet. Distantly he thought he could hear the buzz of the refugees within the mountain, the pounding of the dwarves as they worked to restore their broken city. Only for Bilbo to tug at his arm with an exasperated tisk. It was a light touch, but still enough for Thorin to waver on his feet.

“Oh no you don’t,” Bilbo said indignantly. “Dwalin, get to the point. What do you need from Thorin?”

“Some idea of when he’ll be on his feet again,” Dwalin said. Perhaps to Bilbo’s ears he might have sounded gruff, but to Thorin Dwalin sounded alarmingly concerned. Thorin wondered how awful he must look if Dwalin was asking after his recovery rather than hustling him out the door. “And his seal on Fíli’s orders. It makes the other lads anxious to have two kings at once, even if he is a regent. Hearing he works with your blessing will smooth their feathers.”

“He has it,” Thorin said with a nod. He would have to speak with his nephew later about allowing the elves into the mountain, but he trusted Fíli had only done what seemed best at the time. He would also have to learn more of this battle he had missed, and convey his apologies to Dáin for summoning his armies to a war he had not fought in himself. Which reminded Thorin…

“And the Arkenstone? Has it been found?” Thorin said. Both Bilbo and Dwalin flinched.

“No,” Dwalin said cautiously. “But Dáin will accept that it’s somewhere in the mountain for now. He’ll be needin' to see it before he leaves.”

Thorin nodded wearily. Dáin was his cousin, and they loved one another as such, but sending dwarves to die was not done lightly after the great loss of life at Azanulbizar. Since then, the other clans had demanded that the Longbeards must bring the Arkenstone to bear if they were summon troops again, a law that bound Dáin as much as Thorin, no matter what either of them might say on the matter. For Dáin it was only a formality, but one he must obey as much as Thorin, or any clan leader.

“Then we’d best find it before that time comes,” Thorin said.

“We have until spring,” Dwalin said. “Dáin won’t leave us without backup until the elves are on their way again, and the Men have their city back. Says he’s not comfortable with so many of them in our halls, desperate times and all.” He paused. “You’re sure you don’t… feel funny about the stone?”

The memory of that obsession, the burning thirst to hold the Arkenstone glowing white as the moon in his hand, flared in Thorin’s mind. As much as lust for the jewel there had been lust for confirmation of his right as king, and in the depths of his madness the jewel had become that. An irrational, twisting thought, only vaguely based on the reality of his need to summon the armies of the dwarves to support him as much as to confirm his worthiness as Thrór’s heir. But now? Thorin shook his head, exhaustion weighing at his limbs and heart. “Just see that it is found, and take what time you need. The winter will be hard enough as it is without sparing eyes and hands for the task. Dáin will understand.”

“Aye,” Dwalin said, looking unaccountably relieved. He turned to go, but paused at the doorway. “I’ll give Fíli the news. And Thorin?”

Thorin looked up, raising an eyebrow at Dwalin.

“We did it,” Dwalin said, and with those words he offered a fierce grin that lifted the lines of weariness from his face to reveal the glow of pride, and grim joy. Thorin nodded in return, and beneath the shakiness of his body and his own weariness he too felt that surge of fierce pride and relief like a flame, clean and bright.

Once Dwalin had departed, Bilbo shifted beside him. He had been silent for most of the discussion, as if trying to make himself small as Thorin and Dwalin discussed the winter, and still-absent stone.

Now Bilbo cleared his throat, and Thorin looked at him askance. He seemed to have gone very pale, and his fingers drummed nervously on his knee as he sat with his legs folded at the edge of Thorin’s makeshift bed. “So,” he said after a long moment, “you really don’t want the stone anymore?”

“Of course I want it,” Thorin said wearily. “But if you ask whether I desire it with the same fervor I once did under… under the sickness, as my grandfather desired it, then no. I will rest easier when it has been found, but then I will also rest easier when the dwarves of Ered Luin arrive, when the city is restored, and when trade flows back to the region.” His lips quirked in a tired smile. “Or when I hear the elves are gone. It is a symbol of my house and there are many who may try to steal it without understanding its true value.”

Bilbo gulped at this, looking as if he would be sick. Thorin frowned and said, “Was my behavior as bad as I fear? I know I set the others to the task of searching for it, but you at least I thought spared.”

“No, no you did. It was rather curious actually, but you seemed to be making up for sending me down to the dragon in the first place. At least, that’s what I thought it was. You never asked me to look for it again after that,” Bilbo said, his voice weak at first but strengthening as he spoke.

“You need not worry on it further,” Thorin said. “It will be found in its own time, or not at all. It could well be stuck to Smaug’s foul underbelly and lay even now at the bottom of the lake.” Under the sickness the thought would have made Thorin choke with fear and rage, but now he only viewed the prospect with weary resignation. The dragon’s corpse was another matter that would need attending to once the winter was over.

“I’m sure it’s not,” Bilbo said, staring down at his steepled fingers.

Thorin offered him a faint smile. “I thank you for your confidence, but it matters not either way. We will find a way around its loss if need be.”

“No, I mean, it’s not. It’s here. I… I have it,” Bilbo said, his voice little more than a squeak.

“You what?” Thorin said blankly.

Bilbo looked up, meeting Thorin’s eye directly and this time his voice did not waver. “I have it. I’ve always had it, ever since I found it at Smaug’s feet. I stole it while he spoke. He—he said he wanted you to have it. That it would drive you mad. The idea seemed to amuse him,” the last Bilbo said with barely-suppressed anger, but Thorin was still silent, staring at Bilbo. “I was worried he might be right.”

“So you kept it,” Thorin said tonelessly. Bilbo nodded, his lips drawn to a line that quivered, once.

“I kept it. I know I’m a thief, but I’d to think I’m an honest one,” Bilbo said with a shrug.

“Not many would dare steal from a king. It was a hard thing you did.” Thorin observed softly. Bilbo swallowed, and gave a short nod, unable to meet Thorin’s gaze. “Bilbo, you did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, I’m really quite sure I did,” Bilbo said bitterly.

“I remember threatening you,” Thorin said earnestly. “In truth, you did less than nothing wrong. I cannot say what witchcraft possessing the stone would have worked upon me. I should be grateful to you, Bilbo. You did what only a true friend would.”

“Only a friend?” Bilbo teased weakly, raising an eyebrow and glancing at the bed where Thorin now lay.

“At that moment, a friend was what I needed most desperately of all,” Thorin said, then chuckled. “But it seems you are ever going above and beyond the call of loyalty, Master Burglar.” He should not have been as delighted as he was by Bilbo’s renewed blush, but Thorin could not help but find it endlessly amusing how flustered Bilbo became at the mere mention of intimacy, even in private. He then sobered. “Can you forgive me?”

At this, Bilbo’s head jerked up and he stared at Thorin as if he had gone mad again. “Forgive _you_? Whatever would I need to forgive you for? I should be asking you to forgive me.”

“For leading you into such peril, for any terror you might have felt in my presence during the illness,” Thorin said, and before Bilbo could protest he continued. “I saw your fear, Bilbo. I could taste it. I only thought that you too saw the threat to the gold, but now I understand that it was _me_ you feared, and for that I cannot blame you. I was not in my right mind.”

Bilbo shook his head. “Never of you, Thorin. I was only ever afraid for you, and I made a great mess of that business with the stone. It’s here, if you want it,” Bilbo said, gesturing towards the corner of the room and beginning to rise to retrieve it, but Thorin put a hand on his drawing him down again.

“I trust you,” Thorin said, meeting Bilbo’s gaze, allowing those three simple words to convey all that yet remained unspoken between them. Bilbo met it, and sat again, this time closer to Thorin so that they were shoulder to shoulder. He ran an idle hand down Thorin’s arm, and though the dwarf’s skin was still sensitive in the aftermath of the fever, Thorin sighed at his touch, eyelids fluttering closed.

“I’ll be glad to be rid of it, truth be told,” Bilbo said. “It’s pretty enough, but my heart was in my throat half the time for carrying the wretched thing everywhere I went.”

“It is an heirloom of my people, show a little respect,” Thorin said, lips quirking. “If your guilt would be assuaged by some punishment, then I can offer you my judgment as king,” he said the words lightly, but Thorin’s stomach still gave a queer little swoop at the thought of what he would say next. Yet the moment felt joyful, teasing, for all the troubles and headaches that waited outside the door.

“What is it?” Bilbo said warily, and at this Thorin opened his eyes and looked over at him.

“Stay the winter,” Thorin said. “I would like you to see Erebor once it has been cleaned and renewed.”

“Oh Thorin,” Bilbo huffed, and for a moment he thought his heart would stop, but Bilbo was leaning in, and he placed a soft kiss on Thorin’s lips. It lasted a long moment, new and sweet as the promise of spring to come. “I will stay much longer than that.”

And he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment. It makes the many hours of writing worth while ^_^
> 
> Also feel free to check me out over on [Tumblr](http://www.avelera.tumblr.com), where I'm currently occupied with sobbing over BotFA.


End file.
